Will the Wind Ever Remember
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: John and Sherlock travel to John's childhood home to help an old friend and encounter John's past, memories, and secrets.  Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – I'm publishing this solely at the insistence of ScopesMonkey (who once again made this better than it would have been. Thank You!) and with the belief that publishing it will make me finish it. I'm being brave here so be nice to me. :o)

Warnings – If you can think of it, it will probably be here.

Disclaimer – Duh!

**Will the Wind Ever Remember**

Will the wind ever remember  
>The names it has blown in the past<br>And with his crutch, it's old age, and it's wisdom  
>It whispers no, this will be the last<p>

Jimi Hendrix _The Wind Cries Mary_

Wednesday

1

John

I have no idea how long I've been staring at the computer screen. I've read the name probably a hundred times and I still can't believe that I'm seeing it.

_Troy Benson _is staring at me from my email inbox. I haven't heard from him in 21 years, 21 long and complex years. I honestly never expected to hear from him again.

I don't know how to feel about it. I guess I feel numb, tense and numb.

Troy Benson. 21 years.

The subject line reads, "Need your help."

He needs my help. Troy Benson needs my help.

Numb. I actually don't feel anything; I guess that means I'm in shock. I vaguely wonder how long I've been sitting here. When I opened my email, my next patient was an hour off. I wonder when she will get here - soon I imagine.

My hand is shaking as I move the mouse and click. The hour glass appears for a fraction of a second and the email appears.

Troy bloody Benson.

There are three attachments which I don't open, instead I take a deep breath and begin on the body of the email.

"Dear John,

I know this must be a shock and I apologise for that. If we ever spoke again I expected it to happen under different circumstances. But once again, I apologise. I hope that you know I wouldn't have contacted you if it wasn't serious.

I guess I should get to the point.

It's about Stephanie."

I stop reading and close my eyes, Stephanie. A name I never thought I'd hear again. Stephanie Benson, Bella's daughter.

I open my eyes and continue to read.

"I don't know how closely you follow the news here now that both you and Harry live in London, but Stephanie has gone missing." My chest tightens. "She's been missing for two weeks now and the police here insist that she has simply left. They are refusing to put any effort in to locating her.

"John, I know we haven't spoken in years and that you haven't seen her since she was a baby, but please trust me. She would never have just left. She has a daughter." I gasp at that. I can't believe she's old enough to have a daughter. It makes me feel old. "Her daughter was found alone in the house. She's only 2. Stephanie never would have just left her. It just wouldn't happen. Please believe me on this. Please.

"I don't know where else to go. Mum is distraught and Matt and I are out of ideas and places to look. I discovered your blog and have been reading it for a while. I see that your husband is a detective and I was wondering if he would be willing to investigate.

I know that you don't owe me anything, John, probably the exact opposite considering our history. But I have to ask. We are running out of options here and honestly the police are doing nothing. If your husband or you are unwilling or unable to help us I understand, but I have to ask.

We don't have much money, but that can't surprise you. We are willing to pay everything that we have though. Mum is willing to take a mortgage out of the house if need be. We'll give anything if you will help.

Please consider it.

Other than that I'm glad that you appear to be happy. Bella would have been happy for you, surprised that you have a husband, but very happy.

Thank you and please consider it.

Troy."

I read it three times, still numb. It has to be shock.

My phone chirps. "Dr. Watson, your 3 o'clock is here." It's Emily, the receptionist.

I hit the button. "Give me about 5 minutes and bring her in."

I quickly open the attachments. The first is a newspaper article about Stephanie going missing. It's a short piece in the local paper; it was published bi-weekly when I was a child. I wonder if it still is. The second is a copy of the police report where they reported her missing. It was filled out by Troy and Judy, Troy's Mum. Stephanie's Nan.

_Bella's Mum_. I think and frown. I click on the third. My breath catches and then I let out a loud gasp.

My first thought is that it is a picture of Bella. Bella as she looked when I was in Uni.

It's not though, the hair cut is wrong and the color is slightly off, but it is close. Stephanie looks alarmingly like her mother.

Even after all these years there is a twinge of pain at seeing that face and at seeing the little girl I hadn't seen since she was a baby. I stare at it until Emily knocks on my door and brings my patient in.

After I've convinced Ms. Jacobs that the new mark on her arm is indeed a freckle and not a cancerous growth I get my mobile out. I stare at Lestrade's name for several moments before I finally hit the send button. The least I can do is get the case file.

"Lestrade," he answers.

"It's John," I reply, "I need a favour." He's quiet for a moment, waiting. I continue. "I need all the information gathered on a missing person case in Wellow, Hampshire. I have a case number and a name."

Lestrade is silent for a moment. "Is this for one of Sherlock's case? I haven't heard anything from him," he asks. I can hear shuffling; he's probably getting a pen or clearing of space to work. His desk is usually a disaster.

"Um, no, well, maybe. It's somebody I knew, or rather I know her family. They don't think that the police are doing enough."

"Mm-hmm," he says on the other line. "A common complaint in missing person cases. I take it she's an adult?"

I can't believe that she is an adult.

_It was cold, so cold. I had my brand new Army fatigues, my duffle sitting at my feet as I bury my hands into my pockets and tuck my nose under the scarf to keep it warm. So cold. _

"_John," her voice came from behind me. Even hearing it hurt me, tore through my chest. I didn't want to see her. _

_I turned anyway and she was standing there, bunch of blankets in her arms. I knew what she was holding, who she was holding. _

"_I, I just wanted to…" She stops and closes the distance between us. I hope she turns around with every step. She doesn't, she keeps coming. When she's right in front of me I close my eyes and wish her away. When I open them, she's still there. _

"_I wanted to say good-bye," she says. "I wanted you to see Stephanie." She holds the blankets out. There is a tiny face peeking out, a small pink newborn face. _

_Stephanie, my mother's name. _

_I look at her but step back, I can't hold her. I can't, it will kill me. _

_I shake my head and Bell pulls the baby back to her chest. She nods her head, understanding. _

"_I'm sorry, John, so sorry." I nod._

"_I know, Bella. I know. I'm sorry too. Sorrier than I can say."_

"_You didn't have to do it this way. You didn't have to go into the Army." _

_I shrug, I may not have had to, but it certainly felt like the only option. I'd still be studying medicine, I'd still be helping people, and I'll be travelling. I'll be out of Wellow, out of Hampshire, away from Bella and all the Bensons. Away from Stephanie. _

"_I know," I say. "The train will be here soon." _

_She frowns and looks sad. That hurts me even more. I never liked Bella sad, it always hurt me. I can't though. I can't stay. It'll kill me. _

"_Good-bye, John." _

"_Good-bye, Bella." I hear the train coming. I grab my duffle and toss it over my shoulder. Bella has moved farther away, she obviously isn't leaving though. She's going to see me off. I turn my attention to the train. I promise myself that I won't look back. I won't look at her, at either of them. _

_It stops and I wait a moment. No one gets off, not surprising. I get on and settle in a seat next to the window. I look. _

_Bella is staring at me. She holds her hand up and waves, looks down at Stephanie, and then back up at me. She smiles that enchanting Bella smile. I smile back, despite myself. I always did. _

_As the train starts to move she holds up her hand one more time, I do the same. I wave and she seems relived. I lean forward and watch as far as long as I can. _

_I think that I'll see her next time I come home. Maybe it will be easier then, maybe it won't hurt. There will have to be a point when it won't hurt. It will never be back to the way it was, but maybe it can be okay again. _

It would never be okay again.

"John?" The voice brings me back to the present, I realize that he's said my name more than once. I take a deep breath and release it.

"I'm sorry Lestrade, lousy reception in my office," I lie. "What do you need from me?" I open the email again and deliberately don't read it.

"You said you have a case number, let's start with that." I open the attachment and give it to him, along with the date she was reported missing and the address. I listen as he types in the background.

We are silent for a few minutes, "Benson, Stephanie."

I nod and close my eyes, "That's her." Bella's daughter.

"There isn't too much here honestly. She's an adult and allowed to leave. It seems her daughter was in the house alone. That's troubling of course, but she was fed, properly clothed, and in her crib. It says the Stephanie was aware that her grandmother was on the way over to take the baby for a few hours. The assumption is that she left because she knew that someone would be there to get the baby shortly. It happens all the time actually, you'd be surprised."

I smile at that; I've been married to Sherlock Holmes for over two years. It is damn near impossible to surprise me anymore.

"Her family insists she wouldn't have just left. They've asked me to see if Sherlock is willing to look into it. I'm much more likely to succeed in that if I can show him the police officers aren't doing much."

Lestrade laughs on the other end of the line. "Understandable," he pauses, "Are these good friends John? You grew up around there right?"

I'm surprised that my initial instinct is defensive; I want to tell him that is none of his business. But this is Geoff, this is my friend. I push the reaction away and answer him somewhat honestly.

"They used to be. Stephanie's uncle, Troy, was my best friend growing up. We lost touch over the years," _when Stephanie was born, when I left, when Bella… _

"So, not close now. But they are good people, if they think there is reason to look deeper there probably is." Assuming Sherlock is willing.

He's quiet again, "Okay. Well, I'll email all they've got over to you. Does that work?"

"Perfect," I reply and begin to say thanks but he speaks first.

"You're my friend, John, and I'll trust your judgment on the Benson family, but you should probably prepare them for the worst. Cases like this almost never end well."

"Okay," I say and wonder if he's trying to warn me as well, but dismiss it. "I will warn them. Thanks, Geoff. I owe you one."

He chuckles at that. "Any time, and good luck convincing Sherlock."

"Thanks," I reply. I'll need it.

Less than 3 minutes later I'm looking over the email Lestrade sent. He's right. There isn't too much there, probably not nearly enough to entice Sherlock. If I ask him to do it for me he'll do it without question - he won't like it, but he'll do it. I don't think I'll be able to do that, not with this case, not with these people. But I'm willing to go if he is.

I realise that a part of me hopes he says no.

I print each of the documents and grab a folder from inside my desk. I glance at the clock, 30 minutes before we close. I only have 30 minutes to figure out what the hell I'm going to tell my husband.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – My continued gratitude to ScopesMonkey.

2

Sherlock

I hear the downstairs door open and glance at my watch; John is officially 27 minutes later than usual. Probably the tube. I hate the unreliability of public transportation.

I turn my attention back to the microscope and the yogurt sample I've been studying.

I hear John enter the room and am just lifting my head up to greet him when he drapes an arm over my shoulder.

"Hi," he says, placing a kiss into my hair. He sounds exhausted, which is surprising as he had more than enough sleep last night.

"Hello," I reply turning so that I can see his face. I hope to determine if something is wrong or if he's just had a long day at the clinic. He stands back just a fraction so that I can meet his eyes easily. He's smiling an easy tired smile that generally denotes a long day at the office. However it is slightly off, his body is slightly tense.

"What's wrong?" I ask and his smile grows.

He smiles and shakes his head. "Nothing really." He brings a folder up and sets it on the table next to my microscope. "I got an email from a childhood friend today, his niece is missing and he wanted me to see if you'd consider investigating." He looks towards the file, away from me. He's withholding information. He shrugs and meets my eyes again. "I know it's not your typical type of case, but figured I'd ask." He looks back the file. "He's unhappy with the Hampshire Constabulary, thinks they aren't doing enough."

I huff at that, probably an entirely correct assumption. He shrugs again. "I'm going to take shower." He leans over and places another kiss into my hair, squeezing my body against his. He holds on a fraction longer than normal. "Look it over, let me know what you decide."

He lets go of me and turns towards the hall. "John," I say stopping his movements. He turns and looks at me. From a distance, he actually looks almost haggard. I wonder if it's because of the missing person. I don't see how it could be an emotional attachment. He doesn't speak to anyone from his childhood regularly, and those who he speaks to on occasion he isn't emotionally attached to.

"Do you want me to take it?" I ask. It's a simple question. I doubt I'll have any interest in a regular missing person case, but I'll take it if he asks me to. He knows that.

I'm surprised because his body and face indicate that he will say no. It's obvious to that he doesn't want me to take it. I wonder why. Is it because it's in his home village or because of his "friends"? And if he doesn't want me to take it, why even bring it to me? I'd hardly be upset if he declined on my behalf. He knows that, too.

He opens his mouth and I completely expect to hear him utter "no". Instead he replies with: "Yeah." He pauses for a moment. "Yes, I think I do want you to."

I wonder if I look as shocked as I feel. "But I won't ask you to," he adds. "I've always promised myself that I…" He stops again and looks towards the floor. He looks very old for a second and it pangs through me. "I am not asking you to do it for me," he says and looks back up. "If you don't want to, don't."

I nod at this and he turns, I pick up the file and realize that he got the information from Lestrade. This is police information, not what the family would have been able to get. Also not the actions of a man who doesn't want me to take the case. Yet he so clearly doesn't want me to take the case. I frown as I hear the shower come on.

Stephanie Benson.

There isn't much information. She is 20 years old, she has a daughter, almost 2, found in her crib. There were no signs of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. The child had been bathed, clothed, and was secure in the crib. There is no information on the child's father. If she was abducted and injured, he is a likely suspect. There isn't any information on Stephanie's parentage either. I assume John will be able to provide information on them. I doubt he would bring the case to me if he suspected that his childhood friend had committed a crime.

The man would have to be an idiot to go to John and ask me to investigate if he had done it. Criminals have done stupider things, though. I sigh.

She probably just left - it is usually the case.

I close the file and bury my face in my hands. I'll do the investigation, naturally. John may refuse to specifically ask it of me, but he wants me to, or at least he says he does.

There probably won't be much to find, but I'm interested to see where John grew up. Harry still goes to Hampshire every year, staying in the house they grew up in. She always invites us to go with her but John always refuses. I'd never asked why before, just assuming he doesn't want to holiday with his sister. However, given the reaction to this I might have to reevaluate that. Perhaps it is painful memories or these people, the Bensons.

Perhaps I'll ask Harry. No, John wouldn't like that.

We've been married for two years; this part of my husband shouldn't be a mystery.

I stand and head towards the bathroom, pulling my shirt over my head as I do so.

I kick off my shoes in the hallway and drop my trousers just inside the bathroom door. I push the curtain aside and John looks up. He'd been leaning on the wall, resting his head on his arm, eyes closed. I don't like that. I climb in and push the curtain closed behind me.

"I'm okay," he says. Obviously my concern is apparent.

I nod. "It's a Bank Holiday Monday, can you take Friday and we'll go to Hampshire?" I ask.

He's surprised for a moment, but I reach out and grab his shoulder. I turn him until I can press my chest against his back. He relaxes back against me as I wrap my arms around him. I press my lips against his temple and we stand in silence.

"You are no longer close to these people," I state.

He nods. "We," he pauses, bringing his hands up to hold my arms. "Troy and I had a falling out about the time I joined up." He squeezes my forearms. "It was complicated, but I couldn't, or rather didn't want to stay in Wellow anymore. I wanted to continue my studies and join the army."

He is still withholding information. It's easy to assume Troy resented John and his leaving. The Bensons, including Troy, are still in Wellow. I wonder, however, if it was more than friendship between them. The thought sends as jolt through me and I tighten slightly around John. Perhaps, I shouldn't take it or shouldn't take John with me.

The idea of encountering one of John's previous lovers actually disgusts me. I don't like to think about that, which is why I have very little information on that topic. I know that he was involved with both men and women, but I don't know names or numbers. Perhaps Troy was one of them. It certainly wouldn't be the first childhood friendship that developed into something more - or adult friendships for that matter.

I place another kiss against his temple. He lets out a quiet hum. I feel it reverberate through my chest. The tension is leaving him.

Perhaps it was unrequited love, perhaps Troy turned down John's affection. Based on the level of discomfort my husband is displaying it doesn't make sense that it was the other way around. Feeling rejected is a much harder to deal with than doing the rejecting.

If so, this Troy Benson is an idiot and he deserves to have his whole family kidnapped.

I'll find out this weekend, it seems. For right now, I won't push John to explain further. It isn't necessary. He's here now, and warm against me. I have plenty of time to figure out what I need to know.

I reach a hand out and grab the shampoo. I can feel him watching as I rub my hands together building up the lather. I take a step back and bring my hands up. He leans his head back slightly as I begin to work my fingers over his scalp. He lets out a longer and louder hum as I focus on the back of his neck.

"I should be able to take Friday off, no problem." His voice is hollow and far away. Me washing his hair is one of his favourite things. I like anything that makes him so boneless and pliable. "I'll get tickets tomorrow; do you want to go early?"

"It would be best," I say. Hopefully I can wrap it up quickly. "Can we stay at the house or do I need to get a hotel room?" I ask as I focus behind either ear. He leans his head back farther.

"We can stay at the house." He says that easily. He and Harry still own the house they grew up in. They inherited it when their mother died and have never bothered to sell it. It's where Harry stays when she goes there. But since he spoke so easily it obviously isn't the house or memories associated with it that he is anxious about. "I'll have Harry call the housekeeper she uses and have her run through it before Friday."

I nod even though he can't see me. I take my nails and start at his temples, slowly scratching my way back to his neck. He's making a quiet noise that's technically keening, but I always refer to as the John purr. It is completely satiated noise and it always shoots right to my groin, and today is no different.

I glance around him to verify that the head massage is having the usual desired result. I'm glad to see that he does have the beginnings of an erection.

"Will you call your friend tomorrow and tell him to expect us?" I ask and instantly the purring stops and his body tenses. I still my fingers for a moment before returning my thumbs to his neck. He relaxes again, but not enough.

I hear him take a deep breath before he asks: "Will you do it?" That's particularly alarming, but I don't stop my movements.

"Of course," I answer simply. "His number was in the file."

John relaxes visibly again. I turn him so that he can rinse his hair and then turn him back. I grab more shampoo, but instead of going back to his hair I start on his neck and his shoulder. This won't cause him to purr, but the series of moans and groans at the knots being released are satisfactory.

He slumps forwards slightly as I focus my hands between his shoulder blades and braces himself on the wall in front of him. The muscles on either side of his spine are where John stores his tension and I slowly start to work it away, digging my fingers deep when necessary and barely touching at other points.

The water is losing its heat slowly and we don't have much time before it gets cold. This will have to continue in the bedroom, not that either of us will particularly mind that. I drag my hands down his back and settle one on his hip.

I continue forward with the other, grazing through the hair and settling on his shaft. I pull on it twice earning me a loud grunt as he puts more of his weight onto his arms.

"Mmmmmmm," I say close to his ear and his body tenses again but in response to me not outside stress. It's happy tension.

"Can we take this into the bedroom, good doctor?" I ask dropping my hand to cup his balls and rolling them in my palm.

"God yes," expels out of him in a rush and he straightens. I release him as he begins to turn so that he can rinse off again.

As our eyes meet I'm pleased to see only arousal there now. The emotional and physical exhaustion from earlier is gone or at least it's been compartmentalized by the stronger emotions.

He rinses quickly, but instead of flipping the water off, he stretches up and places his lips against mine. I groan in surprise and then moan as his erection presses into my thigh.

I reach behind him and turn the knob, the water stops but we don't move. I cup his face and he wraps his arms around my waist. He adjusts so that our erections are touching. I shudder at the contact and his lips upturn slightly in the kiss as he smiles at me.

He takes one of his hands and brushes his fingers down my spine and between my cheeks. I push forward into him and he pulls back from our kiss. I try to follow, to continue, but he leans too far. I straighten and offer him my best glare given the circumstances. I doubt it's very severe.

"Bed," he says and he lets go of me. He pushes the curtain open and grabs a towel. He opens it and pushes it against my chest. Then he drags his hand down to brush the rough material against me.

He grabs the other towel and quickly begins to dry off. I follow suit, but take a minute to watch as he dries his groin area, his erection bobbing slightly at the touch.

John steps out of the shower and I follow him, knowing it's okay to drop the towels on the floor today because he does so. I'm sure I'll have to pick them up later though. He reaches a hand behind him and I take it, allowing him to pull me into the bedroom. He turns and falls back against the mattress and I follow him down, settling my weight comfortably on top of him. Our mouths lock again and he wraps his arms around me, one tangling in my hair the other cupping one of my ass cheeks.

* * *

><p>John is asleep almost immediately after, which doesn't surprise me given how tired he was when he got home. I glance at the clock; it's just before six. I'll order some dinner and let him sleep until it gets here. If I don't wake him up he'll be upset with me at midnight when he's wide awake. John is very funny about his sleeping.<p>

I ease off of him and cover him with the blanket. I grab a pair of pyjama bottoms from the drawer and the undershirt John wore today from the basket. I take the file from the table as I head to the living room where John's laptop is already set up on the coffee table. I sit in front of is as I dial the number for the Thai place. I order our favourites and then open the file and find the number for Troy Benson.

I am interested to meet him, this man who has caused all this conflict in my husband. I am certain that I won't like him.

I dial his number and wait. After three rings there is an answer. Instead of the typical "Hello" I am greeted with a "Yeah."

"Troy Benson, please?" I ask.

"I'm him, mate, what can I do for you?" He sounds tired; I'd imagine the whole family is exhausted with the events surrounding the disappearance.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes; I believe you know my husband?"


	3. Chapter 3

Friday

1

John

I bought tickets on the early train. I'd originally done this in hopes that it would give us time to drop our luggage off and perhaps allow me to mentally prepare myself to encounter the Bensons. Sherlock then told me that he'd set up the meeting with them on Saturday, giving me a whole day. I'd appreciated it more than I can, or would say. I've tried to avoid talking about it as much as possible although I know he's curious. It's obvious in the way he is watching me. I've tried to act normal, but imagine that I'm failing at it miserably because I certainly don't feel normal.

I still feel rather numb. I tell myself that I am dreading this and that I'm nervous about it, but I don't think that I am. I don't think I feel anything about it. I don't think I feel anything at all except about Sherlock. He's been very attentive the last two days and I certainly react to his attention.

I stare at the window as they close the doors and prepare to leave the station. There isn't a first class compartment so Sherlock and I are hoarding a table and four seats. He's sitting across from me, his feet propped into the seat next to me.

The precaution isn't necessary though. Not surprisingly there aren't a large number of people on the early train from London to Romsey, Hampshire. He opens the file and starts looking over the information again. He'd run credit reports on all of the Bensons and had contacted to Hampshire Constabulary and received more information that hadn't been formally filed. I suspect either Lestrade or Mycroft had helped him there. He hadn't said and I hadn't asked.

I was trying to avoid it. Is avoidance an emotional response? It doesn't feel like one.

I set my hand on Sherlock's ankles where they are crossed next to me, and close my eyes. The train begins to move.

"_I think we should live in London," she says. Her head is resting on my shoulder and we are lying in the middle of the cricket pitch at the Knox Park. The match ended three hours ago, but we still haven't left. We watched the sunset and now we are admiring the stars. _

_I place a kiss into her temple. "Why London?" I ask. _

_I can hear her smile. "It doesn't have to be London, it's just the closest. Any city will do: New York, Paris, Rome, Chicago, Toronto, Hong Kong…"_

_I chuckle and she stops listing. "I think you are getting ahead of yourself. I'm just about to start Uni. you still have another year of school before Uni. We have time to think about all of this." _

_She props up then, resting on her elbow. "I know, but you're going away. I'll be joining you, and then we'll be done with school and getting jobs, getting married. It isn't as far off as you think." _

_I just shake my head; Bella is always 5 years in the future. When we were 12 she could wait to be 17 and now at 18 she can't wait to be 23 or older. I'm enjoying this, right now, a great deal and not anxious for it to end. I'm dreading parts of the future actually. _

_She places a quick kiss on my lips and settles back on my shoulder. She's annoyed that I'm not as excited at the future as she is. I open my mouth to explain myself a little better but she speaks first. _

"_What time is your train in the morning?" I squeeze my arm around her. _

"_10," I answer. "You know Mum, though she's going to want to get there at like 7 to make sure we don't miss the train." _

_She laughs at that and I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to leave for a month with her annoyed at me. It's bad enough I'm going to spending most of my time with Harry. "That sounds like Stephanie." _

_My mother and Bella had a discussion several months ago where Bella revealed that her favorite female name is Stephanie. She'd happily declared that if she ever has a daughter she'd be Stephanie. My mother happily insisted that Bella start calling her Stephanie. I'd just rolled my eyes. For 18 years Mrs. Watson had been acceptable, and now Mum is offended if she uses that. _

_I think it's because Mum has accepted that this is probably a forever thing. I can't imagine spending my life with anyone other than Bella. The idea is preposterous. _

"_I'm going to miss you," she says throwing and arm across my chest and burying her face in my side. I kiss the top of her head. _

"_I am going to miss you more," I say and she starts shaking her head, "but I'll be back for the holiday weekend in a month." _

"_We've never been apart that long before and think of all the new pretty girls you are going to be surrounded by." _

_I smile and turn so that I'm lying on top of her. She starts to giggle as I press down into her, she settles her hands on my lower back and maneuvers a leg to hook over mine. I feel her firm breasts pressing into my chest and it stirs in my groin. I kiss her and her body relaxes beneath me. I pull back as she maneuvers her fingers under the waist of my jeans. "I have a perfectly pretty girl right here, no need for me to look else…_

"John, what can you tell me about Stephanie's mother?" I open my eyes and Sherlock isn't looking up from the file. He's in work mode now. "I see that she is deceased, but there is no information about how she died?"

Apparently, I'm not as numb as I originally believed because the question causes a flash of pain to surge through me. The strength of it surprises me after all these years, but it dissipates as quickly as it arrived.

"John?" my lack of an answer caused him to look up. He looks concerned. I take a deep breath and it twinges again, not like then, not like when Harry knocked on my door, but more than I expected. It's been 20 years.

"John?" He asks again, no longer concerned with an answer to his question, but about the well-being of his husband. I look up and meet the concerned grey eyes.

"She killed herself," I answer and he frowns. Then a questioning look crosses his features followed immediately by realization.

"Oh," he says looking down at the file. "Oh," he repeats and his eyes go wide. He's made a connection in his mind. It's actually taken him longer than I thought it would. I know what he'll ask me now. I take a deep breath and try to prepare myself for it. Prepare my explanation.

"Oh," he says the third time and looks down at the picture of Stephanie. "I, uh, it was her that you were involved with, Stephanie's mother." It's a statement and not a question and not exactly the one I was expecting. I look at him for a moment. I hadn't realized there was a question about this. Then I realize we haven't discussed this at all. He has no knowledge of my relationship with the Bensons or Bella. I just assumed he knew because he knows everything else. He always figures it out.

"Who did you think I was involved with?" I ask.

He looks back up at me, the surprise under control now and looking at me as if I've asked a stupid question. "Troy," he says with a dry tone.

I laugh, that probably should have been obvious. I shake my head, "No, my relationship with Troy was strictly friendship. I have no idea what he is like now, but in his youth he wouldn't have been particularly welcoming to anything like that."

He frowns, "Were you interested?"

I smile and reach a hand across the table. He takes it, but the frown doesn't leave his face. "No, I was only interested in Bella. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with her."

His frown grows. I squeeze his finger then release them. I stand and settle into the seat next to him. I rest my head on his shoulder and interlock our fingers on the table.

"Bella," he says her name as if trying it out for the first time. It doesn't sound like he likes it very much.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I don't know why, but I assumed you knew."

He pulls away, wanting to interrupt but I keep going. "I realize you didn't have the information to form the correct conclusion. I apologize for that."

He nods and settles back into his seat. I put my head back on his shoulder and we sit in silence for a long time. Eventually, he picks up the file and starts looking through it again. I just sit next to him, looking at the information in quick glances as he turns pages or sets it aside to look at something else.

"She took pills," I say finally and Sherlock stops moving. I can feel him looking at the top of my head. After a moment I feel a kiss there. I continue, "After we, after, well, after my relationship with her fell apart I started to have a lot of fun at Uni." He nods and keeping his attention on me, under normal circumstances I'd be honored that I was more interesting than the case. Although, this doesn't isn't exactly a typical case.

"She came to see me, surprise me," I add. "She found something she didn't like and three weeks later she was dead." He places another kiss into my hair.

He should have enough information to fill in the blanks now, at least most of them. This isn't the last conversation we'll have about this. I close my eyes and relax against his shoulder. Maybe I can delay those conversations a while longer. Sherlock doesn't push, I'm thankful for that. After another several minutes I manage to doze.

"_I'll get it," Phillip says from the bedroom. I don't respond it isn't necessary. I just continue to look at the mirror, shaving. _

_I hear the door open and the voice. I hear her voice at my door. My door, that Phillip just opened. _

_I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist after I quickly wipe off the remaining shaving cream. She's standing in the doorway and her face lights up as she sees me. I look between her and Phillip and panic starts to surge through my chest. Bella notices it before Phillip. She notices the towel, the wet hair on both of us, Phillip in just sweat pants. One bed. The room only has one single bed. _

_Her smile stays plastered for one awkward moment before it turns to distress, then shock, then pain. Absolute and overwhelming pain. The three of us stand there before Phillip, being jackass Phillip, breaks the silence. _

"_Awkward," he says smiling at Bella. He offers her his hand and introduces himself. She looks at the hand for a moment, then back up at Phillip. He offers her a friendly smile, he has a great smile, and the tears start to form. I see them shining in her eyes. _

"_Bella," I say reaching a hand out to her, intending to grab her shoulder. She pulls away and turns to me. The tears start to flow as she turns and walks out of the room. I watch her for a second before calling after her. I grab my own sweat pants from the chair and Phillips sweat shirt. It smells like sweat after our morning run. It doesn't faze me though, I begin to chase her. _

_The pain on her face echoes through me, even after all these months, after everything. _

"_Bella," I call as I reach the door of the building. She's halfway across the courtyard. She's walking though, so I start to jog I catch her in a matter of seconds. I grab her shoulder and turn her around. _

"_What are you doing here?" I ask, trying not to notice the tears. I know I shouldn't care, I shouldn't feel guilty. I do. _

"_I," she starts and has to take a deep breath. She's looking anywhere but at me. "I, thought, maybe, I know, I don't know, I just, I thought maybe I'd surprise you." She whispers the words out. "I thought maybe we could maybe make things work again. I'd surprise you, maybe we'd go to dinner. It could be the beginning. We always used to talk about me coming to Uni to surprise you." _

_I frown at her, "That was before…"_

"_I know," she interrupts, "I know, I just thought. I never thought you'd…" she gestures toward the building, towards Phillips. "He was a man." She adds as if that fact had somehow managed to elude me. _

"_I know," I say, "We met during one our labs." I don't add more, she doesn't need any information. "It just, happened."_

_She nods, still looking at the door. "I didn't know. I just assumed you and I, I had no right to expect or even hope really." She meets my eyes finally. So much pain, heart breaking pain. I caused that. She caused that, I correct myself. The end of this wasn't my fault. It wasn't. "I hoped though, John. I hoped so much." She continues to stare at me for a long moment and I see the question in the split second before she asks it. _

"_Please, John? Please? We can still…"_

"_We can't Bella," I interrupt. I can't do it, I know I can't do it. Even in the moments I wanted to, I couldn't. "I'm not ready to be a parent Bella, especially to Stephanie. I'm sorry for that, I am. But even if there wasn't a Stephanie, I couldn't do it. Not with everything else. Not after what I went through." I watch as the flame of hope that she'd been carrying for who knows how long, fades into nothingness. I part of me dies with it. _

"_I'm sorry," I say. I really, really am. _

_She nods, accepting my words. Then she turns, I want to stop her, but I don't. I can't. I watch her walk away. _

I open my eyes as the conductor announces we'll be in Romsey in 10 minutes. The files are put away and Sherlock is just staring out the window, arms crossed

Phillip was there when Harry knocked on my door three weeks later. Mum had called her and asked her to tell me. Mum hadn't wanted me to hear it on the phone.

I reach up and use my fingers to demand one of his hands. Sherlock gives it willingly. I place a kiss on the knuckles.

"I love you," I say to him knowing he might need to hear it right now. "And we are almost there."

He looks at me, willing to let our previous topic rest for a while. "I'm anxious to see the house where you spent your childhood." He smiles down at me. "I think it will teach me many things about you." He leans forward and I lean up. Our lips meet just as the train slows noticeably.


	4. Chapter 4

2.

Sherlock

The house is exactly what I expected. It is small, but not uncomfortably so. It's modern, but not tacky. It's warm, but not overcrowded with pillows and those little statue things that people tend to spread around their houses. I like it very much. I can understand how my John was formed within these walls.

John intended for us to sleep in the master bedroom, the room where his parents slept, but I refuse. I was pleased to see that the bedroom he grew up in has a double bed, we will sleep here. It is smaller than our bed at home, but we should be able to manage it comfortably.

"Is this room different than when you were a child?" I ask him as he unpacks our belongings and piles them into a dresser in the corner. He pauses and looks around the room for a minute, thinking.

"I think we changed it when I was about 13. It was all footy teams and players before that. I decided I wanted something more adult so Mum bought the paint and my uncle helped me paint it." The walls are grey, but not too dark. The curtains are a mix of black, grey, white, and blue and the same color palate passes to the bed set and the wall hangings. It is a very masculine and adolescent room, but it is not what I'd expected. I like it, it has none of the formality of the room I grew up in, and yet is still decorated in a tasteful manner.

I look at the bed and can clearly picture John there reading or doing school work. He wouldn't have sat at the desk on the far wall, the same way he almost never sits at the desk to do work now. He prefers to be comfortable. I wonder if he was messy as a teenager. He certainly isn't now, but I attribute that tendency to the army generally, but perhaps his mother had a hand in it.

Not for the first time I wish I'd been able to meet her, and John's father.

Then something occurs to me and I frown. I look back at him expecting to see him continue to unpack; instead he is leaning against the dresser, watching me. He has an amused smile on his face and it makes my frown grow.

"Have you had sex in this bed?" I point to it as if there might be some confusion. It is the only bed in the room.

His smile doesn't falter but his eyes grow more serious, he's preparing to answer difficult questions. There will be time for the difficult questions he's worried about later, now we must handle the important ones.

"Yes," he answers truthfully, "several times with Bella when Mum was out." I turn to glare at that bed. I'd already intended to have sex in it, I find the idea appealing. However, now I am fully aware of the bed's history and understand that there are memories I am in competition with. "And alone of course."

I snap my head back around to look at John and see amusement dancing in his eyes; it's then that I fully grasp his words. I'm shocked for a split second before I turn back to the bed and add the image of John masturbating to the one of him studying and reading. It fits rather nicely.

"We will have sex in it later," I state. John's eyebrows raise but he continues to look amused.

"If you say so," he adds turning back to the dresser and the unpacking.

I walk over to the shelves next to the closet and examine the books there. There are some typical school books, grammar and such, along with several novels, and a few low level medical texts. I'm not surprised to see Grey's Anatomy among them. I gently trace my fingers over them, feeling the leather and the paper, feeling that they were dusty just a few days previous. Harry's housekeeper does a very thorough job.

I stop on the end of the middle shelf and pull the first of several photo albums down. I sit on the bed and John groans across the room. He has just looked over and seen what I am holding. I ignore him as I open the cover and am greeted with a picture of newborn John. His mother is holding him and his father is sitting next to her. A young Harry is looking at her newborn brother with a look of pure distaste. He is tiny in comparison to those surrounding him and is in the process of yawning. I love it and these albums are coming home with us.

"Get us some lunch John," I say. "Please," I add as an afterthought. I want to look through these for a while.

He groans again and heads out the door. "I'll order a pizza," he says over his shoulder.

In the second photo he's older, able to sit up on his own. It's obviously Harry's birthday because she is sitting on the floor surrounded by presents and there are balloons hanging in the background. She's holding up a new doll and showing it to the camera and John is eyeing a piece of wrapping paper curiously, reaching out for the bow. His face is full of intense concentration, focusing on the object he is curious to learn about. I run my finger over the plastic film protecting his image. I will never admit this out loud, but he was a particularly cute child.

* * *

><p>I am in the early stages of John's adolescence when he comes in with the pizza box, some plates, and two Cokes. He sits on the floor and leans back against the bed. I set the album aside and join him.<p>

"It took you an unusually long time to learn how to ride a bicycle," I say accepting a plate and a can. He rolls his eyes at me.

"Thanks, I need to be self-conscious about something I accomplished over 30 years ago." He takes a bite of his pizza and chews for a minute. "I assume you studied the activity thoroughly and decided on the technique that would work best for you and were successful on your first attempt."

I glare at him for a minute while I chew and then roll my eyes. "I simply observed Mycroft and friends and copied them. I believe I was successful on my 7th attempt."

It is his turn to roll his eyes and we continue eating in silence.

He only eats one slice, which is unusual, but I do not point this out. As I grab my second he moves slightly closer to me and rest his head on my shoulder. It is an unusual gesture and it has happened twice in one day. We touch often, we always have, but this is different. It is almost as if he is reaching for me, seeking comfort from me. I am not entirely sure how to provide it. It seems the best option currently available to me is to finish eating and sit with him as long as he desires. If I am doing something wrong John will usually let me know.

His feelings towards this case are difficult for me to understand. He obviously doesn't want to be here, the memories of this Bella's death are clearly unpleasant, and the issue of the child, Stephanie, can hardly be pleasant. He is unsure of the welcome he will receive from his childhood friends, and yet here we are. He is showing no inclination to go home, with the possible exception of this head on my shoulder gesture, as I said, we almost never just sit like this.

I set my plate aside and we sit for a long while. I place a kiss onto his head and reach for the next photo album. I open the first page and am greeted with a picture of John and whom I can only assume is Bella. They are on a beach, she in a red bikini and he in dark swimming trunks. The remnants of a picnic lunch are spread out in front of them; her blonde hair is a plait draped over one shoulder. She is laughing and John is looking at her, leaning back on his arms a huge smile on his face. He looks young, so much younger, and the bare chest shows none of the scars that I view almost daily. I know him and yet he is a stranger.

I've never seen the exact look that is on his face before, but I see its close cousin daily. He is looking at her with love, my breath catches in my throat, and John lifts his head to examine me. He loved her, he's told me that already. But I'm seeing it here, it's in his face and his body language. He was in love with her. I frown and my breath eases out slowly. John says my name, but I ignore him. I turn the page and there is a picture of them standing next to each other, John is placing a kiss onto her temple.

He loved her. "You loved her," I say looking down at the picture. I don't have to look at him to know that he is frowning too.

"Very much," he replies. I look at him then, he is looking down at the photo, too. I half expected to see fondness there, but my husband's face shows only pain, no regret or longing, just pain. Even after all these years and being dead she can still hurt him. I hate her for that.

"It was a long time ago," he almost whispers it. The amount of time seems irrelevant. He still hurts because of this, because of her. And time certainly does nothing to diminish my distaste for his previous relationships.

I close the album and John doesn't protest. I set it aside, "This one doesn't need to come home with us."

We are silent for a moment before he seeks out my hand again, interlocking his fingers with mine.

"She isn't my daughter," he says. "I know you wanted to ask."

I pull back and he straightens. No, I hadn't really wanted to ask. I knew that.

He continues: "I thought you'd ask me earlier, when you figured out it was Bella I was involved with."

This does surprise me. "There was no need for me to ask you, I knew she wasn't your daughter. Immediately. "

He looks doubtful at that and I feel the need to explain. "You are a man of many faults and I am very well acquainted with most of them. However, you are not the type of man who would abandon your child. We would not be having this conversation if she was your daughter. You never would have left here, you never would have become a doctor or joined the army, and you would never have ended up in that lab with Mike." I lean down a kiss him. "I never would have met you if she was your daughter."

He tightens his grip on my hand and he frowns, but there is a smile in his eyes, not of happiness or joy but of understanding. He likes that I believe in him, that I know him. Of course I know him, he's John. He doesn't look away from me as he continues. "Bella wanted me to be, pretended that I was the one. I, I wa…" he stops and looks away. He's looking toward the album that won't be coming home with us. I frown. "When I realized, the timing…" His voice trails off and I realize something in a flash.

He knew, Bella_ pretended_. He thought he was the father. He knew about the pregnancy and thought he was the father. That hadn't occurred to me. Hatred flares inside of me. He's John. John. He'd have been scared at the concept, concerned about planning and futures, homes, and education and supporting his family. This is John who would have accepted quickly, developed affection quickly. How long did he know? How long did he think? Days? Weeks? Months?

How long did he love that baby before he figured out the truth? How long did he plan and prepare emotionally to be a father? I won't ask him these questions; I don't really want to know the answers. She'd have been lucky to have him as a father.

My heartaches for my husband and the man he was before I knew him. I place a kiss onto the side of his head and rest my lips there.

Bella Benson, I'm glad she's dead.


	5. Chapter 5

3.

_Mum is standing next to the car, alone. I expected Bella to come with her to meet me. I'm disappointed but try to keep it hidden as I lean over and place a kiss on Mum's cheek. She isn't fooled. _

"_Bella said she'd call you tonight, she apparently wasn't feeling very well." I frown. She'd seemed different when I spoke to her last week, more distant than usual, almost sad. She'd insisted she was just tired from studying and she was missing me. I'd smiled and let it drop. I missed her, too. She hadn't said anything about feeling ill though. _

_I toss my bags into the boot, laundry time. Mum hands me the keys and I climb behind the wheel. "Is Harry home yet?" I ask as I pull out into traffic. _

"_Tomorrow morning," Mum says, resting her eyes. She looks tired, too. I wonder what her diet is like now that both Harry and I are away. I make a mental note to check the fridge when we get home. She also looks like she's might have lost a few pounds. _

"_What time? I'll come and get her." _

_I glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye and see a smirk cross her face. "She's driving," Mum says, "with her new girlfriend." _

_I hadn't heard anything about a new girlfriend, but then again Harry and I rarely talk, I don't like to drink as much as she does. "Her name is Clara." I nod my head, accepting this. Harry usually has nice taste in women. _

"_Is Clara staying through Christmas?" I ask._

_Mum just nods. _

I jolt awake, uncertain of my location. The immediate moment of panic dissipates as I recognise the room. I lie back against the pillow and let out a loud sigh. How many times did I jerk awake within these walls? Too many to count.

Sherlock and I climbed up here after talking about Bella, about Stephanie. That had been after lunch. I look out the window and can determine that the sun's going down. I have been asleep a long time. I sit up and notice the photo albums piled up next to the suitcase on the desk. He really is taking them home with us. I let out another sigh and wonder if the pictures of me in nappies will now be mixed with the pictures of me tied with bumblebee ties or my naked ass as I reach into a closet. I don't see the baby pictures mixing well with the dirty pictures.

This is Sherlock though - who knows what he'll find appealing.

I notice that he's put two of the albums back on the shelf; I recognise them as the albums with Bella. I smile at the idea of Sherlock not being interested in those. If they stay here he'll probably be able to delete all knowledge of her from his brain.

_I wish I could_.

The thought surprises me, causing me to sit up straighter. But I know with certainty that I wouldn't delete her even if I could. I honestly don't think I'd change any of it. I wish it hurt less, but I wouldn't get rid of it. I rub my face over my hand and look up at the photo albums on the shelf. I shake my head and stand. I grab them and add them to the go home pile. If Sherlock finds too many other things, we're going to have to think about shipping them, or at least buying another suitcase to take them home in. I stretch in the doorway and head out to search for my husband.

I find him sitting on the floor in the living room, leaning against the couch surrounded by boxes that he must have pulled from the attic. I shouldn't have let myself fall asleep.

"Shouldn't you be working on the case?" I ask. He looks up at me and grabs a picture, holding it above his head.

"Can we take this home?"

It's a picture of Preservation Hall in New Orleans, it makes me smile. It hung on the wall in my father's study when I was little. I don't remember when we took it down. Sherlock and I went there when we were in New Orleans. Oddly sentimental for Sherlock to want a reminder of that, I won't point it out though. I enjoy those moments.

I nod. "We'll take it; it hardly fits the décor of Harry's place." He sets it aside and reaches into one of the boxes and pulls something out quickly.

"Was this yours?" It's a small outfit for a baby. It's pale yellow and I have no idea if it was mine or Harry's. I shake my head and sit on the couch behind Sherlock, positioning my legs on either side of him.

"No idea," I answer truthfully. He's still facing forward and I can't see his face, but he's frowning, I know it. He doesn't like 'I don't know'.

I lean over and place a kiss into his curls. "What about the case?" I say, feeling a little better about it since Sherlock and I talked. Not great, but better.

He takes a deep breath, hesitating. I know that has to do with me and not true reluctance. "We are meeting Troy at Stephanie's house tomorrow at 9." He tips his head back so that he can see me. "She lives in 'Judy's old place'; he insisted that you'd know where that is."

I nod, not crazy about having to go back to that house, but curious about where Judy, Bella and Troy's mom, is living if she isn't in her old house. I could probably ask Sherlock, I'd imagine he's done all sorts of research already, but I don't want to know. Not yet.

"I know it," I answer, kissing the top of his tipped back head. "We'll worry about that tomorrow." He nods accepting that.

"What about these?" He hasn't moved his head, but has managed to hold up a pair of football cleats. I look at them and recognise them as Harry's.

"Nope," I respond. "Harry played too." He tosses them aside.

"Makes sense, the rest of the items in the box appears to have been Harry's. The shoes seemed out of place." He straightens finally and reaches into the box next to him. "These," he pulls out a silver chain with a set of dog tags at the end of it, "I'm keeping."

I smile; he'd once asked me if I'd kept my dog tags. I hadn't. I couldn't wait to get rid of them. He'd been so disappointed that I'd actually regretted having done it. I'm glad he found a set; I vaguely remember giving them to my mother after a promotion or a move.

"Naturally," I reply to him, dropping a hand to his shoulder and rubbing my thumb into the muscle there. He puts them around his neck and they clank as they settle on his chest. I move my hand over his collar bone and down his chest. I cover the tags and press them into his chest feeling the contrast between the metal and the cotton of his shirt. The tags are cool to the touch. They always seemed to be, even in the hottest of Afghan summers. Sherlock covers my hand and we sit in silence for a second. I place another kiss into his curls. "What about dinner?"

He shrugs, looking towards the boxes he's managed not to open yet. "You don't have to go through every box tonight. We can always come back."

He looks over his shoulder at me, "We've been married two years and you've never shown any inclination to visit here. I am not certain that we ever would have come had it not been for this case." He frowns at me then. "Perhaps, if the outcome of the case is unpleasant, you will never want to come back here again."

_If the outcome of the case is unpleasant_. I'm very well aware of what he means. I straighten, pulling back from him. I don't want to think about that, I don't. His frown doesn't alter, but his eyes widen. He realises he's said something that has upset me or has the potential to upset me. He sits up and turns around to face me.

He settles on his knees in front of me and places a hand on either of my knees. I close my eyes and lean my head back.

_I see Bella as soon as she steps off the train. I'd been so happy when she'd agreed to come for the weekend; I hadn't seen her since Christmas. It is unusually warm for February and she only has a light coat on. Her face looks more plump that usual and as I look her up and down she appears to have gained some more weight all around. It looks good on her. She doesn't see me right away and I admire her as she searches the platform. She looks so beautiful; I truly am a lucky man. She smiles as she sees me; it's hesitant, not unlike how she was at Christmas. It concerns me, but not too much because she wraps her arms tightly around me as we meet. I hold her close she smells like always, like Bella. _

_She whispers in my ear and I'm certain that I don't hear it correctly. I couldn't have, we are…_

_She repeats it, louder, but still barely audible. Every muscle in my body tightens and she won't let me push her back so that I can see her face. She just holds on, tightening her grip. Her words echo through me, over and over and over. _

"_I'm pregnant." _

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says and I open my eyes to look at my husband. His face is showing genuine concern. I just shake my head. It isn't necessary.

I reach a hand down to cup his jaw. "I know. I also know that a pleasant outcome is an unlikely possibility. I'd just rather not think about it, at least not now." He turns his head and places a kiss into my palm.

"Dinner?" I inquire after a moment and he shrugs, again.

"I put the pizza away, we could eat that or we could go out." I smile down at him and ask him a question I already know the answer to.

"Do you want to go out?" He's shaking his head before I finish the question.

"No. There are too many things to do here." I look over his shoulder at the boxes. I smile at his quest to learn it all, everything about me. I wished him luck 2 years ago and have happily sat back and watched him try.

"Not the boxes John," he says and I meet his eyes again. The look has changed into one that sends shivers up my spine. Sherlock notices them and he smirks.

I lean forward and place my lips against his, it's a good thing that I'm not too hungry.

He pulls back from me and we rest our foreheads against each other. We are both gasping as he asks: "Can we go to your bedroom, John?"

I smile, give him a quick peck, and stand. He's right behind me all the way down the hall.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N – This chapter has no real value to the story but the scene wouldn't get out of my head as I tried to write the next chapter. I debated on whether or not to include it, but as it's basically a piece of fluff that's only 500+ words it won't exactly hurt anything. The next chapter moves the story forward, I promise. :o)

4.

John's restlessness wakes me up. This is not unusual when he has a nightmare. It's part concern for my husband and part self-preservation. He punched me once while caught in the mix of dream and wakefulness. It hadn't had the full force that I knew he could put behind a punch but it had hurt and left a fist-sized bruise. The pain was inconsequential though; John's reaction to that action was devastating. He'd been so distraught that he'd caused me discomfort, that he'd been violent towards me. He'd refused to sleep in bed with me for almost a week after, despite my insistence that I wasn't angry. He had been and I was unable to make it better. The whole situation was very distressing and I don't wish to repeat it.

As I awaken and examine him though I am able to immediately determine that this isn't an Afghanistan dream. Those are the only ones that are violent. John's face is mildly distorted with distress, perhaps pain, and he his moaning. It is not a moan of physical pain though, I recognise those as well.

As I watch him he settles - the dream is still not peaceful but he is not moving around any longer. I roll onto my side and put a hand on his chest. He reacts to the touch with a slight twitch away, the contact startling him. I just leave my hand there, resting over his heart, feeling it continue to race. His face distorts again.

"Bella," he mumbles out and I frown. I almost pull back in disgust and a flare of jealousy, but don't. John can't control his dreams, really. And it isn't if he said her name in a moment of passion or excitement, he's clearly upset.

His head flips to the side again, and he lets out another moan. Usually, the best option is to let them play out. If he doesn't wake up during the nightmare, he won't remember them. I think I'd prefer him not to remember any dreams about Bella Benson.

"No," he mumbles out again, his body tensing underneath my hand. However, my waking him up is preferable to him waking himself up in a panic. I move closer to him, pressing my chest against his shoulder.

He rolls into me. He is distressed as he does so, mumbling out an anguished 'no' again just as his face buries between my shoulder and the pillow. It sounds like a quiet sob and I move my hand to his hair and am about to whisper out his name to wake him when throws and arm over my waist.

He lets out a shaking, relieved breath and then breathes in again. His body relaxes immediately and he snuggles deeper into the pillow.

"Sherlock," he says. His breath ghosts over my shoulder. I turn my head to kiss his temple and he lets out a quiet hum. His dreams have obviously taken a more pleasant turn.

I can't keep the smile off my face as I relax myself and begin to drift back off.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday

1

We arrive at the house 15 minutes early at Sherlock's insistence. He stared at me the whole way over, saying simply that he enjoyed watching me drive; I suspect that it has more to with his keeping an eye on me. He's been doing a lot of that since we got here. Not that I can blame him exactly, I certainly don't feel like myself. At least not all of the time.

I'm standing against the car waiting on Troy. Sherlock had asked if I wanted to accompany him on his 'initial inspection of the perimeter' but I'd declined. I don't think I'm ready to go in there yet. Half of my childhood was spent behind those walls, and it was the half that I now remember in a clouded haze of pain and anger. Not at all the familiar warmth of the house I was raised in.

My mum's house, or rather mine and Harry's house, looks almost exactly the same as I remember it. It's been kept up very well. The bushes and the trees are taller and it's a little smaller than in my memory, but it's still home. This house, the Bensons' house, looks run down and forgotten. The plants are overgrown and wild, the lawn is patchy and full of weeds. The door to the small detached garage is missing or rather missing in places. It looks as if it was hit with a car or perhaps just fell off. I can see tools and boxes through the broken door that are clearly suffering from water damage and rust. I have a sudden urge to make sure Bella's things aren't among them and to rescue what I can. But I don't, and the urge passes.

I look for my husband and see him standing at one of the front windows pressing on the corners, seeing if he can get it open I assume. I suddenly remember something and share it with him. "When we were kids sometimes we'd go in the back door if Mr. and Mrs. Benson weren't home. If you pushed up and to the right on the knob it would open." He turns over his shoulder looks at me and nods. "Unless of course they've had it fixed," I add.

He huffs out a partial chuckle. "I doubt anything on this house has been fixed since before you were born." He presses on the window in a certain way and it pops open. I'm startled for a second before meeting his eyes. "That hasn't been opened in years." He pushes it back down, I hear it snap, and he starts to walk back towards me. He's brushing his hands together as he asks. "Can you describe the internal layout for me?" He stops in the middle of the lawn and looks back at the house. I wish he'd come and stand closer, but that's ridiculous - he can't protect me from the memories.

I nod, bringing up the memory and begin. I point to the far side. "There are two small bedrooms that span the length of the house on that side. When I was a child the front one belonged to Troy and their brother Matthew. The back one was Bella's." _She'd open the back window and let me in sometimes or sometimes she'd climb out and we'd go off to the park or just to the bushes around the corner. The first time we ever had sex I'd climbed through that window. _"The master bedroom is on this side of the house in the front, it's just off the living room, which spans the middle in the front." I point in the general area of the front door. _Troy and I would sit on the floor in that living room and watch cartoons after school. His mom would make us biscuits and his dad would tell us stories about fixing cars. Sometimes we'd pick on Bella because she was a girl and we didn't like her. _"There is a kitchen and small dining area in the back and the only bathroom is between the kitchen wall and what was Bella's bedroom."

He closes his eyes and I know that he is creating a map in his head. He'll adjust it once we get inside, but I'd imagine the one he creates will be fairly accurate. He opens his eyes and nods. He's done. "It seems like a rather cramped arrangement for 5 people," he says and I shrug.

"Probably, but it didn't seem like it when we were kids." And it didn't, we all knew that my house was larger, but we were perfectly comfortable in this one. Even when I'd spend the night and Mr. Benson would make us play with Bella.

I hear the engine just as Sherlock looks over my shoulder. I close my eyes, knowing it's him before I turn around. He always liked the loud cars. I open my eyes and see that Sherlock is closing the space between us and that the car is parking in the street. It's a Camaro from the 1980s. He'd always wanted one when we were kids. I wonder where he managed to find one, not that it could have been pricey or anything. It looked dilapidated.

I feel Sherlock's fingers trace my palm in the few seconds it takes Troy to open the door and step out. The small touch makes me release a breath I didn't know I was holding and I feel some of the tension leave my body. I glance over at him and he's staring at me. "At any point in time if you want to leave say so and we'll leave," he says quietly. I'm surprised, once he starts a case he's never willing to stop. But I guess this truly isn't a typical case. I nod and he pulls his fingers away.

Troy smiles as he looks in our direction. It is a smile of greeting, not of mirth. He looks exhausted and I guess that shouldn't be surprising given what he's gone through the last few weeks. He looks older, but then I imagine I do as well. I've accrued a lot of demons over the last 20 years. I'd imagine he has a few, too.

He closes the distance between us and offers me his hand. Warmth enters his features as he does so and he seems genuinely glad to see me. He has wrinkles around his dark brown eyes, which are almost black in the early morning sun, and there is a lot of grey mixed in within his natural brown. He looks like he's had a hard life. Lots of people around here have hard lives.

"John," he says warmly and I nod at him as we shake.

"Troy." I almost offer a typical, 'good to see you' platitude but it wouldn't be genuine and it wouldn't be appropriate given the circumstances. There is a second of awkward silence before we let our hands drop and I gesture towards Sherlock.

"Troy, my husband, Sherlock Holmes."

They shake hands and Sherlock does a quick glance up and down evaluating Troy. He doesn't like him, which is obvious - to me anyway. He probably never had any intention of even trying to like him. That makes me smile, just a little.

"Mr. Benson," Sherlock says sticking to formality. "I assume you can grant us access to this establishment."

Troy looks puzzled for a minute, I guess he expected pleasantries. Sherlock just cocks an eyebrow and stares at him. Troy looks to me. I offer a pacifying smile. "There's work to do," I say and Troy nods. We follow him to the door.

The interior looks almost exactly the same as I remember; most of the furniture is the same, from the worn and frayed sofa to the giant console television. Even the brown shag carpet is the same as I remember. It would itch our elbows as we lay on it. There are several modern additions as well, an iPod dock in the corner with giant speakers. A satellite reception box, DVD player, and DVR are sitting on top of the TV along with an assortment of remote controls. The pictures on the tables and walls are mostly different too, where a mix of Troy, Matt, and Bella used to reside there were now pictures of a baby and Stephanie and some of her friends. There were a few with the whole Benson family, not long after Stephanie's baby was born, It occurs to me that I don't know her daughter's name and I wonder if I really want to. I'm sure I'll find out soon. I pick up one of Stephanie holding her daughter, who must have been about 1. They both have huge grins on their faces and the blue eyes are shining on both.

"_If it's a girl, we'll name her Stephanie after your mum, well not really after your mum, it's always been my favorite name for a little girl," she says sitting on the foot of the bed. She's so excited, almost bouncing off the walls. I'm still trying to catch up. How did this happen, we're always careful. Always use protection. "If it's a boy, how about after your dad, James?" _

_I look up at her and she frowns, "John?" She pauses looking at me seriously, "I am having a baby." I nod at her. It isn't as if I thought she was lying, I just, I just, I don't know how I feel I guess. _

_Scared, I'm scared that's what I'm feeling. _

_A baby. A dad. I am going to be someone's dad. How can that be, when I'm not an adult? _

_She's still frowning when I meet her eyes again. She's verging on angry, I can see the clouds forming behind those blue eyes. No one else in her family has blue eyes, or blond hair for that matter. The randomness of recessive genes can be fascinating. The baby could have blue eyes. _

_What the hell am I thinking I'm going to be a father, somebody's father? A human being's father. A parent. _

_My mum is going to be pissed. _

"_I, I am just, I don't know, surprised," I say and that seems to calm her somewhat. "How long have you known?" _

_Her frown alters for a moment, and she glances away from me. I don't like it, something feels wrong. I wonder if she's going to lie, has she known too long, perhaps…_

"_Only a week," she replies and meets my eyes again almost defiantly. "I thought you'd be happy we've talked about having a family someday."_

Someday,_ I think_, not now._ I don't say it though. She won't want to hear it. _

_I nod at her, and close the distance between us on the bed. I cross my legs and our knees touch as I rest my hands on her thighs. "I'm just shocked," I say, "There's so much to think about, so much to do…"_

_I trail off and she smiles at me again, I always get lost in her smile. "We'll figure it out," she says leaning forward to place a kiss on my lips, and I feel the whispers of happiness and excitement forming in my belly._

We would never figure it out.

I set the picture down and look back around the room. Sherlock is looking a picture on the wall and Troy is pointing out the family members. Sherlock isn't actually interested in this information but is listening in hopes of getting more information that originally asked for. I wonder vaguely what exactly he hopes to hear but I won't ask. He'll let me know when it's time.

"…and that's my wife Gina and our kids Michael and Jeremy."

"Gina?" I ask and both Troy and Sherlock turn to look at me. "You got married to Gina?" I can't keep the hint of amusement out of my voice. I can't believe it.

"Yeah," Troy answers rather sheepishly. I let out a little laugh.

"Well I hope the two of you have calmed down some since then." This earns me a laugh and an odd look from Sherlock - he doesn't like not being included. "Troy and Gina dated the entire time we were teenagers," I say, "and they used to have these just horrible fights with screaming and throwing and it was hard to watch at times." I turn my attention back to Troy, "It ended though when she went off to school, right? America or Australia?"

Troy laughs and looks at the floor, crossing his arms. "Yeah, she went to the University of Chicago. We both moved on, she was engaged to a man from Nova Scotia and she was going to settle there and teach. I met a girl I was pretty serious about and well, you know. Then Gina came home for Christmas the year before she graduated and we ended up at the same party. Things just clicked back into place and she came back here to teach." He smiles over at me with a touch of pride on his face. "Married 16 years next March. It was the best thing I ever did."

I smile back and feel genuinely happy for a moment. I'm glad my old friend is happy. Then I begin to wonder if there was a hint or an allegation in his words, and implication that maybe I could have been happily married for a long time to, if only I'd married Bella. If only I'd been able to look the other way, or not done the math, or … I feel my smile fading and Sherlock clears his throat.

"Mr. Benson," he begins, "did Stephanie usually sleep in the master bedroom or one of the other bedrooms over here?" He gestures to the end of the house with the two bedrooms and Troy looks confused for a moment, probably because Sherlock hasn't been out of the living room to know the layout of the rest of the house. "I ask because I notice that your mother hasn't been residing with your brother and his wife all that long really, just since the birth of Stephanie's daughter. I was just curious if the arrangement was temporary or was the property turned over to your niece indefinitely?"

Troy frowns really confused now and looks at me. It's oddly surreal that I'm the safe beacon between Troy Benson and the giant crazy absolutely gorgeous genius. I smile and nod my head at him, urging him to answer. He looks back at Sherlock and does.

"Mum didn't fancy living with an infant again, and Matt and his wife have the spare flat behind their garage." Troy shrugs, "It's only got one room, but Mum figured it would do her and save Matt and his wife from the crying baby too. Stephanie was staying here and saving money to get a place of her own. She's a waitress at Mario's…" Sherlock looks at me.

"The pizzeria we passed coming into town yesterday." He nods and looks back at Troy wanting him to continue. Troy looks at me for verification, again, and I nod, again, trying not to roll my eyes.

"Well, that's it really. Oh, she um, still sleeps in the front bedroom there. Izzy's in the back one?"

"Izzy?" I ask and both of them look at me. Sherlock frowns, realising that I hadn't known.

Troy nods, "Yeah, Steph's daughter, Isabella. We call her Izzy instead of Bella though, obviously."

I nod, and manage a half shrug. I feel a wave of numbness again and Troy looks concerned for a moment. I wonder if I've turned ashen or something. Sherlock distracts him though, by having Troy lead him towards the bedroom. I settle on the couch and bury my face in my hands. Isabella, named after her grandmother. I take a deep breath and push the image of Stephanie in Bella's arms on the train platform out of my mind.

I sit for a moment before Troy re-enters the room. I look up at him and he's staring down the small hallway. "He kicked me out," he says turning to me.

I almost laugh at the shock on his face. Instead I shrug. "He does that sometimes." Troy nods and turns back to the hallway. "He's really good at this," I say, realising suddenly that this isn't just my old friend and this isn't just for fun. His niece is missing and he's genuinely worried.

Troy nods accepting my words before joining me on the couch. "I, um," he starts and looks in the general direction of Sherlock again, "I, um don't know how we are going to pay really? I mean you know we don't have much, even Matt who owns his own garage and the house…"

I start shaking my head. "Don't worry about it," I say and hold up my hand, knowing that he won't take charity. He's too proud for that. "Consider it a favour for an old friend. He's not here because of the case; he's here because of me. And I'm here because of Bella. So we'll call it square and walk away from this even."

He starts shaking his head, "What happened, what we, what I said…"

"I don't want to talk about it," I interrupt, louder than I anticipated, but he stops. "It was 20 years ago; we've both moved forward, looking back isn't going to help him find Stephanie. If at the end of this we're both," I pause, "if we are, we'll talk then." He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to do it now, but lets it drop. I'm thankful for that. I'm about to say so when Sherlock comes back into the room. He's got the slight flush that investigating brings to his cheeks.

"Mr. Benson…" he starts.

"Troy, please," Troy interrupts and Sherlock frowns, not interested in the formalities or lack thereof.

"Fine, Troy. To whom was your niece closest to in the family?"

Troy frowns and seems surprised by the question. "Um, Mum I guess. Why?" Sherlock tilts his head slightly recognising something in the way Troy answered, but says nothing.

"I will need to speak with her, now if that's possible."

Troy looks between us, and then settles on me and not for affirmation. I realise something in his look and he looks down and starts to shake his head.

I lean back and feel my eyes widen in surprise. Sherlock looks puzzled in the split second before I say: "She doesn't know it's me." Troy stops shaking his head and buries it in his palms. "She doesn't know I am here?" I look up at Sherlock and he's still puzzled, but based on my reaction, he can figure out how bad this could be.


	8. Chapter 8

2.

I watch him as he drives with both hands on the wheel, arms locked, face contorted in a mix of fear, pain, and anger. Three emotions I don't generally associate with John and don't like seeing on his face, ever. But at least they aren't directed at me. I put a tentative hand on his thigh, sometimes he doesn't like to be touched when he's too tense. This doesn't seem to be one of those times. He doesn't flinch and unhappiness doesn't cross his features. He doesn't appear to react to it at all.

"Let's go home," I say. His head jerks around quickly to me then snaps back to the road. He shakes it vehemently.

"No."

I frown, squeeze his thigh and let it drop. We stop at a red light; Troy's car is in front of us. He called his mother as we stood in the front lawn of Stephanie's house. He told her we were coming by, John included. She appeared to have a few choice words for Troy, but he'd walked away from us so that we were unable to hear the conversation. I could probably have observed him and gained all the information but I was more interested in my husband. He'd been angry almost immediately. John doesn't handle being lied to or manipulated very well. Given what I've learned the last few days I understand his reasoning for that. I just stood next to him, making my presence known while he worked himself into quite a fury.

Troy had apologised before offering to lead us to his brother's house. I'd accepted on behalf of John; he wasn't in a position to communicate verbally, at least not in a pleasant manner. I'd have offered to drive if I knew how. I doubted it could be that difficult, but I knew John would be reluctant, even while infuriated, to let me experiment today.

The light turns green and John hits the accelerator. I watch him for another moment, his lips are twisting and he's alternating between chewing them and puckering them. It's a cross between his nervous habit and his angry habit. I squeeze his thigh again.

"She blames me," he says and I nod my head. I manage not to roll my eyes; that was obvious. "Bella never told them, she - she let them think it was me."

"They thought you just left her," I add, understanding. He nods his head and purses his lips again. The emotional blows he suffered would only have been increased by the tarnish to his honour. I'd imagine even in his youth he would have been concerned about things like that. My husband has always been a man of integrity, sometimes annoyingly so.

"Troy confronted me, beat me up actually. I refused to fight back. They didn't know even when I left. They thought I was just leaving her and my - and the baby." I squeeze again and he glances at me. He offers a half smile and turns his attention back to the road.

"When did they find out?" I ask, although I could probably make an educated guess about that.

"In her suicide note," he says confirming what I suspected. "She admitted I wasn't the father and that, in fact, she didn't know who he was. She said she did it because of her guilt about what she did to me, about lying, about being a mum and her fear that she wouldn't be good at it." He bites his lower lip and a flash pain crosses his features for a split second. "They continued to blame me though, at least her mother did, she said if I'd just forgiven her and done right by her then Bella wouldn't have, well she wouldn't have done what she did. Maybe, but I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"It wasn't your responsibility." I state simply and he nods. He doesn't feel guilt about her death now, but I know John and I wonder how long he did. How long did he blame himself? The thought makes me frown. We turn onto a side street and Troy stops in front of a red brick house. John stops our car behind him. We sit for a minute and watch Troy get out of his car. I watch John take a deep breath. His knuckles are white on the wheel and I watch him force his hands open and reach for the door.

* * *

><p>Judy Benson is in her early 70s but looks significantly older. I can tell by the look that John gives her that she has not always looked this way. He is initially surprised and then there is a flash of concern. He is a doctor, always. The small flat has the heavy air of stale cigarette smoke. There is a fairly new pack on the coffee table next to a crumpled one that was finished relatively recently. I'd estimate her at a pack to a pack-and-a-half a day smoker, but that has increased with the stress. The ash tray is overflowing with cigarette butts and there is a collection of ash all around the dish. The scene is repulsive and I can't quite believe I maintained a smoking habit for so long. John's nose crinkles in disgust at the smell and I frown. Another reason I'm glad I stopped - I imagine he'd be horrible to live with if I still maintained the habit. He'd probably bring home photos of blackened lungs and patients on ventilators.<p>

There are no societal pleasantries or typical welcoming gestures. She reluctantly allows us into her small sitting area and, after offering John an initial glare, she seems to be ignoring his presence. For his part, John is standing straighter than I've ever seen him do and has his chest jutting out slightly. He's putting on a brave face but doesn't want to be here. He'd prefer not to have this encounter, especially since she was unaware of our, or rather his, involvement in this case until 23 minutes ago. I have the urge to take his hand but I refrain. This is a case - granted an unusually personal case - and we have established rules. I don't believe the gesture would be welcome.

We take the seats Troy suggests and he sits on the couch with his mother. She grabs her pack of cigarettes and lights one.

"Troy said he was hiring a detective and I supported the idea." She glares at John. "I expected that he'd hire a competent one though."

I smile despite myself. "I am more than competent to handle a simple missing person case; in fact, this is significantly below my skill level. And as I am attempting to locate your missing granddaughter - I assume as you _do _want her located - you will cooperate with me fully." She glares at me and then looks disgustedly back at John. I roll my eyes and stand. "Let's go, they clearly are not interested in our assistance."

John stands, too, and Troy's eyes go wide. Judy takes a drag and looks towards her son. Their eyes meet and a look of concern crosses between them, she turns back, nods, and looks towards the floor. We both take our seats again.

"Your son insists that Stephanie would never have just left her daughter, do you concur with that assessment?" She flicks off some ash and I have the urge to clean out the ash tray. For me to have the urge to clean something is very unusual. I dismiss it.

She nods, "I'd be surprised if she just left", she answers, "Stephanie loves that little girl, but…" She looks at John. "It's hard being a parent, especially a mother, especially alone. We help her when we can, but children can be difficult, especially when you're young." She grounds out the cigarette and reaches for another one. "Maybe she's like her mother, Bella couldn't handle it either. I was surprised when she killed herself, Mr. Holmes." The sound of the lighter fills the small space followed by the smell of freshly lit cigarette. "Perhaps if she hadn't been alone she wouldn't have." She glances to John. I flick my eyes to him and he stiffens, but I know that it is only noticeable to me. For the first time since he brought the folder into our flat I think this is a bad idea. I knew John was reluctant and I knew it might be unpleasant, but John can be very stubborn. He will push himself far beyond what is healthy to prove a point to himself, or me, or the Bensons.

I focus on her for a moment. "Does Stephanie have any interaction with her biological father? Is he even known?" John glances at me, knowing that I know he was unknown to Bella, so must have been unknown to Stephanie. However, Judy Benson doesn't know that I know this.

A smirk crosses her face and she shakes her head, "No, Bella didn't know who the father was. She only knew who she wanted it to be. He couldn't handle that though and look what it cost all of us, especially Stephanie."

John sighs next to me, annoyed now.

"Some part of it might be for the best though," she continues, "Better an unknown dad than one who sleeps with men, especially just months after…"

"Oh please," John says, interrupting her. "This is pointless. I'll leave if it will help. I can wait in the car." He stands and looks down at her, then at me indicating that I should stay. I don't like that at all, but do not move. "I loved Bella, you damn well know that. She's the one who betrayed me; she's the one who lied. She lied to all of us if you'll remember correctly. I'm sorry that I wasn't a better man and that I couldn't get over it. I tried, you'll never know how hard I tried. How much I wanted," he pauses, inhaling sharply. "You'll never know how much I wanted things to be different. How much I wanted what she was trying to sell me. I couldn't do it though, maybe if she'd been truthful…"

"She loved you," Judy snaps. "She was scared of losing you. She was just a child."

"So was I," John snaps back, voice rising. "And I was trying desperately to do what was right! All for naught - it was all lies. She wasn't the only one who lost something, I lost two of them!"

Judy stands and points her fingers, cigarette secured between them, at John. "You could have made it right! You could have fixed it! Instead, she comes to you at your high class university to beg your forgiveness, to beg you. She was going to BEG YOU. And what does she find, you in bed with a man! Less than six months after that baby was born you are in bed with a fucking man, queer boy." She takes a breath and John seems surprised by the insult. I'm surprised to learn he was involved with a man immediately after. Perhaps I really should have taken time to learn more about my husband's past. I stand, ready to intercede, but she continues. "Three weeks later my little girl was dead, my sweet baby girl. It's your fault as sure as if you'd bought her the pills or forced them down her throat. It was you, you and that baby, Stephanie, that ruined everything for her. Everything. You killed her."

John takes a step back and I know that it is because of the accusation against Stephanie not him. She blames her granddaughter as well, a child who did not ask to be conceived or born. I watch him take a deep breath and look at her.

His voice is calm when he speaks again, "Like I said, pointless. We are just here trying to find Stephanie. I'm here because Troy asked me to be, because Bella would have wanted my help, his help." He points at me. "I'm going to go wait in the car. Hate me all you want, Mrs. Benson. I'll take all the blame you can throw at me. That's fine. It's all my fault, but he can help you. He can find your granddaughter. He can find Stephanie. Let him. I'll go wait outside so that you can pretend I'm not here. Pretend I never came back."

He looks at me, the anger apparent on the surface, but his eyes are pleading as he asks me. "Stay please? I need you to find her." I open my mouth to say no. No we are going home and are never coming back here. He is never coming back here, but I nod my head and return to my chair.

Gratitude crosses his features as I do so. "I'll be in the car." I nod again.

He takes a step towards the door and it opens. Another man walks in, Matthew Benson if the family resemblance is any indication. The girl with him is obviously Isabella, Izzy. She bounces into the room with a doll in one hand. She looks towards her great-grandmother, Troy, me, and then settles on John. He is unsteady on his feet for a minute and he closes his eyes. I grab the arm of the chair to stand again, to move John out of here. He opens them then and smiles down at her. She is perplexed a moment before smiling back at him.

"Hi," she manages, and holds her doll out for him to see.

"She's pretty," John says, and her smile grows. "What's her name?"

"Suzy," replies Izzy and takes a moment to examine her. John kneels down to her level.

"And what's your name?" he asks, successfully hiding, even from me, any distress that he is feeling at this encounter. She could have been his granddaughter; however, I suspect that if Stephanie had grown up with John she would not have found herself pregnant at 18. She probably would not have been allowed to speak to boys until she was 25.

"Izzy," she says looking over her shoulder at her uncle. "What's yours?" She speaks very well and very clearly. She is obviously a very intelligent child already understanding the dynamics of conversation. She is clean and healthy in appearance and seems very well adjusted and comfortable in the presence of strangers. Stephanie appears to have done an excellent job at parenting so far.

"I'm John," my husband says. "It's very nice to meet you, Izzy." She nods at this smiling. She takes a step towards him and opens her arms. He returns the gesture and they hug. Happiness, sorrow, pain, and regret cross John's face in the split second that the hug lasts and it pangs in my chest, especially the regret. He turns his head slightly and breathes in the scent of her hair. It's a quick gesture but I notice it. I wonder if it is so that he can learn it or if it is a reminder. Does she smell like Bella or how he remembers Bella? I feel the frown as it settles on my face.

He pulls away from her and pleasantness is plastered on his face again. "I have to go now," he says and stands. He nods a quick greeting at Matthew Benson before walking past him and out the door. He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. Our eyes meet for just a second but the message is clear. He wants me to stay, he is fine.

The door closes and I look around the room at these horrible, disgusting people. I hate them all and have to forcibly prevent the snarl from forming.

"Let's cover some of the basics," I say as Judy finally returns to her seat. I will get the information I need quickly so that I can find Stephanie and get John away from all of these people, these horribly vindictive, vile people. I suddenly understand Bella's desire to get away from all of them, by any means necessary.


	9. Chapter 9

3.

I turn the key enough to get the power on in the car. I crack the window and turn the radio on. I hardly notice the song as its notes quietly spread through the vehicle. I take a deep breath and try to get a grasp on all feelings surging through me. It's been 20 years; it shouldn't feel like this anymore. It shouldn't hurt so much. I close my eyes and rest my head against the steering wheel.

_It's quiet. I feel like we've run out of things to say, run out of tears to shed. _

_Bella is curled up on the chair across from me, her hands resting on her belly. It's large enough now for her to do so. I look up at her, she's staring out the window, eyes red, cheeks wet. I bring up my hand and wipe off my own cheeks. _

"_Who?" I ask, not really wanting to know but it's the one thing we haven't discussed or yelled about yet. _

_She turns to look at me. "Does it matter?" She asks, voice quiet and scratchy with the recent tears. _

_I nod. "It does," I answer, even though I'm not sure it actually does. _

_She shakes her head and turns away. She's quiet for a long moment before saying, "I don't know." _

_I tilt my head, replaying her answer. "You don't know?" My voice turns out loud again and she flinches. _

"_You got drunk, slept with someone else, and you can't even tell me his name? You don't know? Was it worth it? Was it good?" _

_She turns then, shaking her head. "I just didn't want to hurt…"_

_I stand up, "You didn't want to hurt me? Well you failed, Bella! You failed as badly as anyone in history has failed! I'm hurt." She flinches again but doesn't look away from me. "I'm devastated! You lied to me, about this!" I hold up both hands in the general direction of her stomach. She looks down, rubbing her hands across it. "About this," my voice cracks and I turn away. _

"_John, don't go." I hear her stand as I put my hand on the doorknob. "We can fix this."_

_I turn and look at her, keeping my hand on the knob. "No, Bella, you can't. This isn't 'John, I'm so sorry I forgot our date' or 'John, I forgot to get the tickets to the show'. Did you think I couldn't add? That I wouldn't figure it out? This is a _baby_, Bella. You lied to me about our -" I pause and the lump forms in my throat again, "about the baby. You let me think I was going to be a father. That I was going to have a baby, that we were going to have a baby. This isn't getting better." I open the door and head down the hallway. There is no one else home at the Benson's house and I'm glad for that. I don't want to see them, I don't want to see any of them ever again. _

_I hear her coming after me and she calls my name. I don't stop. I don't turn around. I head out the front door and get behind the wheel of my mother's car. I back down the driveway and see Bella standing in the lawn as I drive off. _

_I slam the front door without thinking about it. My mother comes from the kitchen to see what's wrong. She's in her housecoat and the slippers Harry bought her for Christmas. Christmas, the beginning of the end. _

"_John," she says setting the jar of marmalade she was holding on a table and taking a few more steps in my direction. "What's wrong, honey?" She asks: "Is it the baby? Is something wrong with the baby? What happened at the doctor?" _

_The doctor, the end of the end. I put my hand on the sofa in order to keep myself up, it doesn't work. Pain shoots through my knees as I hit the floor. I can't see as the tears make my vision blurry. I hear her as she closes the distance between us. I feel her as she kneels next to me and wraps her arms around my head. She pulls me against her and I bury my face in her shoulder, letting the tears fall. _

_She smells like she's always smelled, like my mum. She starts whispering words and I can't hear them through the haze of my tears, but I don't need to hear them to understand. She's my mum, I've heard the words a thousand times. I gasp a breath and don't hold back. I shake against her and her grip tightens. _

"_Oh, baby," I hear and I cry harder. Baby, this whole thing started with the baby. _

"_I'm not the father," I mumble against her shoulder. She holds me tighter and I feel her tears as she starts to cry too. _

The car door opens and Sherlock climbs in next to me. I don't lift my head from the steering wheel and feel his hand settle on the back of my neck.

"Let's go," he says, "back to Stephanie's house." I look over at him and he's staring straight ahead. I don't know what I expected, a sympathetic look or an understanding smile. I get nothing except his fingers working the back of my neck. I sit up and look at him for a moment longer before starting the car and pulling out of the drive. He stops massaging my neck but keeps his hand resting on my shoulder.

"Why back to Stephanie's?" I ask as I turn onto the main road.

"I did not search thoroughly earlier and would like to do so without a member of the Benson family watching."

I nod and don't ask anything else. I don't want to know. I'm suddenly weighted down and exhausted. I want to go home, our home, and sleep in our bed and pretend like we never came back here.

"I believe that I have collected all the information necessary from the Bensons so you should not have to see them again."

"I'm fine," I say.

"You are not," he answers. "There is clearly more that you and I need to discuss about Bella and Stephanie and your time at university. I would rather continue the discussion someplace neutral though, our flat, for example."

I'm not, he's right. I sigh and his index finger brushes up my neck.

"That woman was vile, John," he says. "I understand that the whole paternity situation was less than ideal and didn't end well for you. However, I think you should praise every deity that you don't believe in that you did not end up a member of that woman's family."

"She lost her daughter and her granddaughter…"

"Neither of which have anything to do with you, John." He turns and looks at me; I can feel his piercing stare. I don't meet it. "I could, perhaps, see why she would put some of the blame on you for Bella's death." I cringe, and his finger traces again. "Surely you know that it was not your fault. Nobody is to blame for suicide except the person committing the act. You were lied to. You were betrayed. You had no responsibility in the situation, none at all. If Bella killed herself over the events leading up to Stephanie's birth it was her actions that drove her over the edge, not yours. However, family members very rarely look at these situations logically."

I nod, I know he's right. I do. It just doesn't feel like that right now. It didn't feel like it then either. When Harry knocked on my door, it was a Sunday morning. I'd climbed out of bed to answer it. Phillip had rolled over, mumbling his annoyance as I pulled some trousers on.

"Harry told me," I tell him. "Mum called her, she didn't want me to hear it over the phone. She woke me up, it was a Sunday."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but I know that he's still watching me. "I hated her for that. I hated her for telling me. I didn't believe her."

"That is a typical reaction." His words aren't dismissive, just stating a fact. He's correct, of course. "Somebody you cared about was not only dead, but had killed herself; it seems only natural that you would be angry as well as upset."

"You could say that," I respond, pulling into the driveway of Stephanie's house. Sherlock pulls a key out of his pocket and I wonder if he stole it or if he asked for it.

"Troy gave it to me," he answers the unasked question. "I will say this for your friend, he is an idiot of monumental proportions, but he is sympathetic to you."

He gets out of the car and I follow.


	10. Chapter 10

4.

John is asleep - I insisted on it as soon as we arrived back at the house. He was exhausted by the day's emotional turmoil. I was tentative about the situation to begin with and now utterly detest the whole thing, entirely because of what it's doing to John.

He is too sentimental, too emotional, always will be. I hate the things to which it makes him vulnerable, the people to whom it makes him vulnerable. Like Judy Benson, the vile waste of humanity.

Idiot.

Blaming John for her daughter's death, even after all these years. And blaming Stephanie - as if a child - who didn't ask to be conceived - has any responsibility for the actions of her parents, or her mother in this particular case.

It's obvious that Judy Benson doesn't contain her opinions; I have no doubt Stephanie has spent her life hearing about her failings and her inability to live up to her mother. Her dead mother, committing suicide at 19 because a man she loved refused to have her, because she had a child, because she was a coward.

I understand to some degree - losing John would be devastating - but it was her fault that she lost him.

Her loss.

Ultimately my gain.

Perhaps I should be grateful to her after all. Then again, perhaps not.

I sit back on the sofa and examine the photos we took at Stephanie's house today. I took pictures of the rooms, the clothing, the closets, the entrances, everything really. Normally, I am better able to make deductions at the scene, but I had no desire for John to spend any more time in that house than absolutely necessary.

I scan through the pictures again even though they really aren't necessary. I remember everything clearly and it is becoming more and more obvious what happened to Stephanie. The items not in the pictures are more telling than the items in the pictures. I've sent an email to Lestrade to have him check several things for me and then I will have an answer. I won't share anything with John until I know for sure. I am uncertain how he will receive the news. I couldn't care less what the Bensons think.

I sigh and set my phone down; I'm done with the pictures. I am done with this case. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. I really am ready to leave here. Well, not here specifically, experiencing John's childhood home has been rather enjoyable. I sit up and reach for the box closest to me. There are still more of John's items to search through.

I pull out several items of little interest, rugby awards, football awards, some team pictures. There are some more books emphasising John's deplorable taste in literature. I set these all aside indifferently.

I pull the cigar box out next. I eye it for a moment before setting it on my lap and opening it. Immediately, I'm greeted with a picture of John and Bella. I almost groan, feeling as if I am being bombarded with images of her on this trip. I set it aside though and the next picture is also alarming. It's a sonogram photo, the date in the corner indicates that it must have been Stephanie. It's well-worn in the bottom left corner and I wonder how often John stared at this photo. It hasn't been looked at for at least the last 4 years, because he hasn't been here since I've known him. I wonder if he's missed it.

I set it aside and the next is a photo of John and a man. They are sitting on a bench and the man has one arm draped over John's shoulders. They are sitting close enough so that this man's hand is resting on John's shirt right above his left nipple. With his hand flattened on John's chest I know this is deliberate. I'm annoyed by his openness at touching the man who will be my husband and I am jealous. I cannot sit that way with John because it would hurt his shoulder. This man has done something with my husband that I have not and I don't like that. I wonder if this attractive, young, arrogant man is the one Judy spoke of today. John looks about the right age for this to have been taken not long after Bella. I frown.

I hate him. I don't even know his name.

I set that one aside too and pull out a picture of another woman. She's a brunette and looks older than John. He's older in this photo than in the last, but not much. He has an easy smile on his face and his arm wrapped around the woman's waist. Actually his hand is resting lower, just on her hip. It's just at the point where it is an intimate touch. They are each holding a pint out in the gesture of a toast and based on the goings on behind them it appears to be some type of party. The look on her face is fond, but not loving. This is clearly an intimate relationship, but not an emotional one. I wonder how long it lasted, how long the intimacy continued. I am surprised that this picture doesn't bother me as much as Bella and the man. I am curious as to why; perhaps it is simply Jonh's emotional involvement, or lack thereof.

In the last photo he is in his uniform, full dress blues, hat tucked under one arm. His hair is as closely cropped as I've ever seen it and he is much older than the others. He's probably around 30, still before Afghanistan though. He's standing next to another man in a uniform and they are looking at each other and laughing. They provide an interesting contrast, in such formal attire at a clearly formal event and yet laughing with the ease of old friends. They are clearly comfortable with each other and the true nature of their relationship could probably be easily hidden. He is the only one of the group, apart from Bella, whom I can identify. Not that I have ever met him, but Bill Murray is a constant in the background of John's life. I've never discussed with my husband the true nature of his relationship with this man, but based on the blog comments and the emails it is a long and comfortable one.

My only surprise at finding this photo is that it appears the relationship with Bill Murray was much longer than I anticipated. In my head I had determined that it started during their time in Afghanistan together. This is proof that it predates that. I'm not entirely comfortable with that idea, although I know that John's contact with this man is superficial at best now.

At the bottom of the box is an odd collection of items which obviously hold sentimental value to the people in these photos and others from John's past. There are tickets from the cinema and theater, matchbooks from restaurants and clubs, a wrist band with 'VIP' on it from a concert, a collection of lapel pins, and a flattened, dried rose.

I examine each one carefully, but find them annoying mostly because I am unable to clearly determine the significance of each. In most cases I can't even associate them with a person or a photograph. There is a ticket to a Dave Brubeck concert in Birmingham that I know John attended with his father and Harry and there is a lapel pin in a shade of blue which represents ovarian and cervical cancer. This is the type of cancer John's mother had and he makes regular donations to a cancer research organisation that has this pin on their mailings. This must be one of the last additions to this box; he hasn't been here many times since she died.

The rest are a mystery that I can't easily solve.

I put all of the smaller items back in and am examining the photos again when he comes into the room, scratching his head and yawning. He's shirtless and his pyjama bottoms are sitting lower than usual on his hips, bunching around his ankles.

He looks at me, notices what I am holding, and frowns. Immediately, I wonder if it was acceptable to look through this box; it had not occurred to me before. John had set no limits on my exploration and it isn't as if I would have known what it contained previous to opening it. Perhaps I should have closed it upon realising what it was. I move to put the photos back and he looks back up and meets my eyes.

He isn't angry and I'm relieved about this.

"I didn't think that was a box you'd enjoy going through." I nod, looking down at it. I can't say that I enjoyed it. It's left me feeling jealous and annoyed, feelings I'm not proud of. I continue to stare down at it as I hear him close the distance between us. The picture of him and Bella is still on top and I'm trying not to focus on it, but I don't want to look up at him either.

He stands next to me for a moment, his legs visible out of the corner of my eye. After a moment he runs his fingers through my hair, using his nails to lightly scratch just at the base of my skull. I close my eyes and enjoy it despite myself and my desire to sulk about this.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks and I shake my head. That isn't why we are here. He's had a difficult day and I should be supportive, it's what spouses do. It's what I should do. The rest of this can wait until later, until we are home and I feel more comfortable.

"What's his name?" The words are past my lips before I even realise they were forming. I frown at myself and the lack of control my brain has over my mouth. I am about to take it back when I realise I have moved the photo of John and the man on the bench to the top of the pile. I hadn't even noticed.

"Phillip," John answers me tightening his fingers in my hair. "I met him during a lab at Uni. He was beautiful, willing, loud, and fun. I latched onto him as soon as I met him because of everything that had happened with…"

He trails off for a second and I mentally fill in 'with Bella'. This confirms that this is the man Judy was speaking of.

Phillip. What a horribly plebian name.

"We were mates at first, at the pub on Friday nights and such. Then one night it was more. It shocked the hell out of me but not so much him. He was a year ahead of me and we broke it off when he left school. Last I heard, and that was probably 10 years ago, he was in New Zealand. Auckland or something."

I nod, accepting that, still hating him. But obviously John hasn't spent time collecting information on this man. I should find comfort in that.

I notice my hands flipping to the next photo, John and the other woman. His hand moves out of my hair and onto my shoulder. He sets his knee on the sofa and rests his weight on it while still standing. The position moves him subtly closer to me and he places a kiss on my head. "Dr. Elsa Philemon, she was one of the doctors I first worked with when I was a house officer."

"You didn't love her," I say, still not looking up.

His voice has a slight humorous undertone. "No," he answers, "not even close. It didn't last long, but it wasn't supposed to. It was convenient and fun. When I moved to an army hospital we never spoke again." I nod, this doesn't surprise me.

I turn to the next photo. "This is Bill Murray," I say it instead of asking it.

"It is," he replies, placing another kiss. I expect him to say more, but he doesn't.

"It lasted a long time." I fill in the silence.

"It did," he says, "on and off. We filled a hole in the other's life when we could. It was nice and comfortable and welcome. We were friends first though, that was always the unspoken agreement. There were never any strings or commitments." He squeezes my neck lightly. "Bill is married now, had a baby a few years ago. He's very happy with his life."

I set the photos down in the box and keep my eyes on them. "So am I," John adds after a long moment and I finally turn my head to look up at him. He has a simple smile on his face and the day's events are still showing in the creases around his eyes, but he's not thinking about that. He's thinking about me. I know that look. He leans forward slightly and places a kiss onto my forehead.

I close my eyes and feel him shut the box and gently pull it out of my hands. I let it go willingly and I hear him drop it, once again, into the box.

"You do know I am happy with my life now, don't you?" He whispers the words against my forehead and I reach an arm around to settle around his waist. He moves, positioning himself over me, turning slightly and bringing his other leg up so that he's straddling me. He settles his weight on my thighs.

I nod and rest my hands on his hips. The jealousy I'd been feeling just a few moments before is fading, being pushed aside by the stronger feelings John so easily stirs inside of me.

"Say it, please? Tell me that you know how much I love you." He's serious and I'm surprised, but no matter what was in that box I know it.

I nod again. "I know." He smiles at that, just for a second, before he leans down and places his lips against mine. They are soft and he has the slightly unpleasant taste of sleep, but it doesn't matter, it never has. I open my mouth to him and his tongue invades me. He moves his hands around to cup my face and holds me in place while he pushes closer to me.

I take the opportunity to slide my hands under the waist band of his pyjama bottoms and squeeze his ass. He moans into me, spreading his legs just a fraction and pushing against my stomach. I can feel the slight increase in pressure as his erection begins to form. It sends a pleasant tightening up my spine

He pulls back and starts working on my buttons. "You know," he says and I have to focus my mind to actually hear his words. My heart is pounding in my ears. "I keep a box at home with stuff concerning you in it." He doesn't look at me, keeping his attention on my buttons. I'm astonished. Surprised to the point where I pull back slightly to examine him. After a second he meets my eyes again.

"Where?" I ask, determined to go through it as soon as we get home.

A slightly embarrassed smile crosses his face and he shrugs, going back to work. "The linen closet, behind the cleaning supplies. I figured you'd never see it there." I frown and he chuckles. "Feel free to dig it out when we get home; just don't make fun of me for being sentimental."

I roll my eyes and lean up to place a peck against his lips. "That would be like making fun of you for being you. Ridiculous."

That earns me a smile and our lips lock again. It's my turn to push into him and he willingly lets me take control. I always enjoy the taste of John. I press my fingers into his cheeks and dig my thumbs into his hips. He shifts and thrusts slightly in my grip. I groan and he pulls back, allowing me to take his bottom lip into my mouth. I suck on it for a minute before we separate again.

We are both gasping and an image of John on the bench with Phillips crosses my mind in a quick flash. I lean forward, dislodging his hands as they begin to pull my shirt out of my trousers. He accommodates me, but I can tell by the slight tension that he's confused by the change. I open my mouth and press it against his chest, right above where Phillip's hand had been all those years ago. I press my tongue against him and silently and quickly reclaim the spot. And as his fingers settle in my hair again I move down just a fraction and begin to suckle on his nipple.

His sharp intake of breath makes me smile; I'll be the last person to ever hear that noise out of John Watson. I can live with that.


	11. Chapter 11

5.

_There is a light snow on the ground as I look out of the window of the clubhouse. It's beautiful outside, which surprises me somewhat. I haven't been back here too many times since Bella. Even when Mum was sick, I usually visited her at the hospital in Salisbury, almost never here. Almost never in Wellow. _

_I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see my sister. She's in a simple beige dress and she looks beautiful. I'd imagine like most brothers across the world, I forget sometimes that my sister is a girl. She folds her arms and a grin crosses her face. _

"_Are you ready to do this?" she asks me. _

_I laugh. "I'm not the one doing anything, you are. Are you ready?" Her grin softens into a simple smile and she nods her head. _

_She's excited, I can tell. She closes the distance between us and rests her hand on my shoulder. "Thank you for getting leave for this. Thank you for coming."_

"_Of course. It isn't as if my sister gets married every day and you know I love Clara." She squeezes gently and nods again. She looks outside, towards Knox Park and all the memories it holds, for both of us. I frown, not wanting her to bring up Bella, or the Bensons, or the fact that I don't come home as often as I should. _

_I'm saved from hearing it by the sound of the wheelchair on the floor. Harry turns and we both watch as Mum wheels into the room. She has a simple pink floral dress on and a beautiful pink scarf covering her now bald head. She looks good though, she's had several good days in a row. The wedding has helped with that. And I know that she's been feeling better since she's entered into the last phase of chemo. The end is in sight for her and she's the type of woman who'll find inspiration from that. _

_Neither of us offer to help wheel her - that wouldn't be welcome. She's very independent. We just stand, Harry hooking her arm through mine, and watch her. She closes the distance between us quickly and greets us with a huge grin. _

"_I love seeing my children together." There is no accusation or suggestion that I don't come home enough. That isn't her way. She's is genuinely just happy that we are together now, for this. _

_I notice the box in her lap just as she closes her fingers over it. She pushes the lid off and shows the flower to Harry and I. "You can't stand up with your sister on her wedding day and not have boutonniere." I smile and kneel down, resting a hand on the arm of her chair. _

_I smile at her as her steady hands pin it to the lapel of the suit Harry preferred over my uniform. When she's done she takes a hand and cups my face, her thumb traces gently over my cheek bone. I smile back at her for a moment before standing up enough to place a kiss on her cheek. _

"_Thanks, Mummy," I say pulling back just enough to smile at her again. There are tears in her eyes and Harry tsks next to us. Mum lets out a quiet laugh and looks over at her. _

"_None of that, Mum, you promised," Harry says with no real feeling at all. I stand and Mum offers each of us a hand. _

_The three of us sit there for a moment, basking in the long familiar companionship. Then there is a knock at the door and Clara's father comes in. It's time. _

I hold the rose gently between my thumb and index finger. I remember so clearly the moment Harry gave it back to me. She and I were sitting here, on this couch, and we'd just returned from making the arrangements at the funeral home. I'd travelled all night from Bastion, having been granted special leave. I'd made it with just a few hours to spare. Clara had picked me up at the airport and rushed me to the hospital in Salisbury. I was so thankful for that.

Harry opened a book that was sitting on the table and pulled the flower out. "This isn't the right time," she'd said, "but I haven't seen you since it's been ready." I stared at it, confused for a moment before realising what it was. My mother had given it to me the day Harry got married. Harry had saved it for me.

I take a deep breath and set it back in the box. Sherlock trails his fingers through my hair, drawing my attention back to him.

"Unhappy memory?" he asks, tentative. I turn my head and place a kiss into his bare chest, shaking my head.

"No," I answer. "Mum gave it to me when Harry got married. Harry preserved it for me." He nods, accepting. I turn my head and rest my chest back against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat, calm again, resonating through my body. I close my eyes and savour it.

None of it seems so bad here, lying on top of my husband on the couch after making love. The memories seem farther away, the pain they carry duller and superficial. Even going through the cigar box doesn't hold the power that it could. Somehow Sherlock makes it all seem lesser. I'm eternally grateful for that.

I use my index finger to absently sort through the rest of the contents in the box. It's an odd collection of memories and I'm surprised how much is here and how much I've missed things I didn't even remember keeping. This will have to go home with us too, although I probably can remove some of the items. I won't though - I know that. I close the lid and set the box on the far end of the coffee table. I scoot up and bury my face into Sherlock's neck. His arms wrap around me as he lets out a contented sigh.

He wants to say something, ask me something, but is unsure if it will be well received. I kiss his pulse point and ask: "What?"

He sighs again and tightens his arm around me. "The sonogram picture," he starts and I feel myself tense. "I know that you were willing to accept the responsibility for Stephanie and that you were even looking forward to it." I nod against him, almost certain that I know what is coming next. "But it isn't something that we've ever spoken of; do you want to be a parent?"

I reach a hand behind me, encouraging him to take my hand. He does and I interlock our fingers and resettle our joined hands on Sherlock's chest. I place a kiss onto his knuckles. "Yes," I answer honestly. "I always pictured myself as a father." I feel him tense slightly, I anticipated that. I kiss his hand again. "Not at the expense of this though. We've never talked about it, but I'm perfectly aware that it isn't something for you. I knew that before we even became involved."

He doesn't relax and I prop myself up on my elbow and meet his eyes. He doubts me. I smile at him. "We don't live simple lives, you and I. We don't keep regular hours. I can't imagine you up for 2 a.m. feedings or reading bedtime stories or comforting after nightmares…"

"I comfort you after nightmares," he interrupts defensively. I smile.

"You can't give a blow job to your kid." He frowns and I lean down placing a kiss on his collar bone. "You know what I mean." I sit back up. "This life, our life and you, are what I want. It's all that I want. Children don't fit into it and I am perfectly okay with that."

He examines me for a second and looks away. He nods and I settle on his chest again.

"Thank you," I say. I feel him look towards me again.

"For what?" He asks.

I prop up again. "For doing this even though you don't want to. For doing this even though I wasn't sure I wanted you to. And for staying even though I know you want to leave."

"I want you to leave," he corrects and I smile at him again. He's right of course. None of this is about him, none of it at all.

"Thank you for not pushing it." He frowns, but nods again. I settle down again and close my eyes. I could sleep again and I know that isn't a good idea. It's an avoidance mechanism and I've taken advantage of it a little too much. I force my eyes open and begin to trace an absent pattern onto his chest.

After several minutes I ask: "Do you have any ideas?"

"I assume you are asking about a specific set of ideas as I have any number running through my head at a given moment. For example, the temperature of the room is too cool for you to remain comfortable without a blanket much longer, approximately 7 minutes." I smile against his neck and he continues. "There are exactly 78 days left until your birthday and I have just begun running through possible gift ideas." He pauses. "I have decided on one." I chuckle.

"I mean about Stephanie."

He nods and when he speaks he is serious. "That was obvious."

I frown, realising that this means that he does know something.

"Tell me," I say, unhappy that he didn't share any information with me right away.

"No," he answers without hesitation. I begin to sit up as he says: "Not until I know for sure."

"Tell me," I say again serious and beginning to feel angry.

"No." He is equally as serious. I know that he will not budge on this. I know it as sure as I know my name. This will devolve into an argument and I will not win. That doesn't mean that I will not fight.

I put my hand on his chest and watch as he grunts as I use that arm to push my weight up. I stand and look down at him, pointing at him.

"What do you know? What happened to her?" He makes no move to get up or even appear upset that I am upset.

"No," he says again, his gaze not wavering. "I will tell you when I know for sure. I am waiting on some additional information."

"From who?" I ask, walking way, moving towards my phone. "Lestrade? Mycroft?"

He sits up finally and watches as I walk across the room. I grab my phone from the table and open it up, ready to call. He doesn't say anything at all, just watches me.

"WHO?" I yell. No need to debate the issue, it was a yell.

He once again just watches me, settling his elbows on his knees. I open my contact list and scroll down to Lestrade. If Sherlock has asked him for information or help he'll tell me. Mycroft will not.

I hold my thumb over Lestrade's name and look at Sherlock one more time. "Tell me," I say again and I realise my voice sounds desperate, pleading, not angry. It surprises me. Sherlock's eyes go wide and then he looks down. He won't answer me. That much is obvious. I look at the phone with every intention of making the call.

I don't.

I stare at it for a moment and set the phone down. Sherlock looks up at that, eyeing the phone on the table before meeting my eyes. I manage to stumble the few steps to the nearest chair and collapse into it. I fold over, setting my elbows on my knees and burying my face in my palms. If he won't tell me it's bad, or it could be bad. He thinks it might be bad. He'd tell me otherwise. He'd tell me. I can feel the panic rising up inside of me. I can feel it filling the back of my throat and making it constrict. I obviously knew it was a possibility, I knew it could be an option. I knew…

I can't breathe, my chest is too tight. I gasp, trying to get air. Trying desperately to get oxygen.

I feel him sit on the arm of the chair next to me. Then he pushes himself partially behind me and partially next to me, forcing his thin frame into a space where he clearly doesn't fit. I realise there are legs and arms wrapped around me and a flaccid penis pressed against my side. He places a kiss against my ear.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I am not certain. I will let you know when I am. I promise. I just don't know yet. Trust me."

Trust him. My trust in him is one of the few certainties in my life. I will always trust in him. Always.

I gasp another breath and it's too much. The whole thing hurts too much. Bella, Stephanie, Izzy, Mum, Sherlock's unmoving presence. I feel the tears on my cheeks before I realise they are coming. I choke down a sob and Sherlock grabs my head. There is another kiss against my ear and he pulls me against him. I turn my head to bury my face under his chin and I let go.


	12. Chapter 12

Sunday

1

I'm waiting at the end of the driveway. I phoned Troy last night, waking him up. I'd instructed him to be here at 6 a.m. and not a moment later or John and I were going home. He'd put up a bit of a fuss, but those were my terms and I hadn't wavered. He'd finally agreed. I'm keeping an eye on my watch. If he is even 1 second late, I am leaving.

I hear the engine and glance at my wrist again. 5:58 am. Blast. I roll my eyes, annoyed that he is on time and annoyed that he drives such a loud automobile.

He stops in front of me and I walk around and climb into the passenger seat.

"To Stephanie's house," I say, pulling my safety belt on. We don't move.

"Where's John?" he asks and I look up at him, hoping he understands that I am looking at him as if he is stupid. Well he is stupid, but I hope he understands that I know that. Based on his level of stupidity, I doubt it.

"Asleep," I say and point to the road in front of us. "To Stephanie's."

"Why isn't John…"

"My husband's actions are not your concern. You will not be interacting with him again. You will take me to Stephanie's house and I will verify several things. Then, perhaps we will come back here, perhaps we will head to the local constabulary. That has yet to be determined."

Troy starts to drive, finally, and I am thankful not to see John come charging out the front door and down the lawn, chasing us. He is going to be monumentally angry with me when he wakes up and realises that I have left him behind, but after the events yesterday evening, this seems to be the only way. I will not allow him to distress himself further over this. These people are not worthy of his upset.

"Is he okay?" Troy asks. "John?" he clarifies as if there was some other mutual acquaintance that I might have knowledge of and be happy to share with him. Idiot. I'm tempted to ignore the question, but do not.

"He will be fine as soon as we are done with this case."

Troy nods and turns a corner. The engine of this vehicle is unnecessarily loud; I might actually get a headache from this. That will just add to the aggravating nature of this trip. I sigh.

"I'm sorry I emailed him." I look back at Troy and am surprised that his expression seems genuine. He glances at me for a moment before looking back at the road. "I just didn't know what else to do. I'm really not that close to Stephanie, she reminds me too much of my sister."

"So you avoid her, leaving her to your mother's tender hand." He doesn't miss the sarcasm.

"I should have taken her in. Gina and I thought about it, but it just seemed too much…" He trails off.

"You were a coward." I state, expecting it to anger him, but it doesn't. He just nods.

"I was. We all were. She's just so much like Bella."

"Which is why you knew John would help you," I say. "He'd do it for Bella and you knew that. It's why you sent her picture. You used that to get him, and by extension me, here."

His grip tightens on the wheel. "We have to find her."

"So that you can alleviate your guilt about not being close to your niece, so that you can feel better about your sister killing herself?"

He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "You're wrong though, I didn't know he'd come. I hoped, because I do feel guilty. We all should have done more. I should have been there for her like I wasn't there for Bella. Maybe if we'd been less angry at John, realised that it wasn't that simple. Maybe it all would have been different, for everyone."

I don't care about everyone, I care about John. Only John. I don't even care about Stephanie or Izzy - other than the fact that John does.

"I thought John might be too angry to come or to help. I expected him to ignore the email or reply with a giant Fuck You. Instead…"

"You don't know him at all. We are done with this." I cross my arms to emphasise this just as we turn into the driveway at Stephanie's house. I climb out of the car before Troy can say anything else and I head in through the front door and to the bathroom. I am standing with the medicine chest open when Troy finally catches up.

"What was right here?" I point to the blank spot I'd photographed yesterday. A spot just the size of a prescription bottle, with a small dust ring underneath that would indicate that it was exactly that. He frowns, confused. I roll my eyes. "What kind of medications has she been prescribed?"

And in a split second his face goes from confused to panicked, probably more panic than he has been during this whole ordeal. His eyes go wide and he takes a step back. His mouth drops open and he stares at the empty shelf in horror.

"Pills?" He says taking another step back. "There are pills missing?"

"Yes," I answer. "What kind were in the house?"

He starts shaking his head.

"Bella." He takes another step back - he's back into the hall now, out of the bathroom. He lifts his hand up and points at the empty space. I take the steps necessary to stand in front of him and grab his shoulder. I shake him enough to get his attention and then shake him again for good measure.

"What is missing from this shelf?"

"I don't know," he says sounding weak. "She'd been - had a cold a few weeks ago that wouldn't go away. Antibiotics maybe." I roll my eyes and let go of him.

"Has she been in an accident or have any injuries that would require pain medication? Does she require medication to help her sleep or take antidepressants?

He's shaking his head again. "I don't know." I roll my eyes again and exit the bathroom.

"Would your mother know?"

He nods. "Probably. She pretty much knows everything."

I add 'controlling' to Judy Benson's list of stunning character traits. "Call. Her." He stares at me a moment before reaching into his pocket for his phone.

I walk past him and head into the kitchen. Troy follows me, his body tense. I turn to face him and point towards the knife block sitting on the counter, there is a paring knife missing. His eyebrows raise and he follows my finger.

"Mum," he says. "I have a question. Steph, did she take any medication for depression or anything?" He actually sounds calmer than he looks, which is amazing.

"Why?" I hear Judy's voice come through the phone and look at him disgusted.

"I just need to know Mum. Just tell me." He raises his voice slightly and I'm surprised that.

I can hear her voice as she answers, but not the words. I doubt she truly knows. If Stephanie was planning to commit suicide she was obviously very clever about it. She wouldn't have shared the information with her grandmother or she would have obtained the pills illegally. Although, given that there was a dust circle around the pills I doubt they were a new acquisition. She's could have been thinking about this for a while.

"None," Troy says and I look up at him. "She didn't even get antibiotics for that cold. She didn't fill the prescription. Mum says she threw away some of her old prescriptions when she was here last month though, she'd forgot about them in the chest and they were expired."

"Your mother's prescription?" I say and Troy is shaking his head. "She moved out two years ago and still had a prescription here?" Troy starts nodding his head. Well, there goes the most obvious option; John will be pleased my initial assessment was incorrect. Not that I ever shared my initial assessment with him, even after his breakdown.

"What about this knife?" I ask, pointing at the block again. He frowns for a moment before shaking his head.

"I don't know." He frowns again and I wonder if we are going to have the panicked moment of realisation that she might have slit her wrists, but he just shakes his head.

I put my hand on the counter and watch him for a minute. "Per the police report there was nothing obvious missing from the house, is that correct?"

He nods and looks towards the pantry; it's a quick and subtle glance but I recognise it as a lie.

"What is missing?" I say and he meets my eyes. The idiot is trying to look confused, which is making him look like he smells something foul.

I wait and watch. I count to 30. Just as I open my mouth to speak my phone vibrates in my pocket. In the quiet room the sound resonates. I glance at my watch noting that it is just past 7 am. It's John, I know that before I pull the phone out.

_Where are you?_ I can see the words on the screen and suddenly this doesn't seem like the most brilliant of ideas. But it was the only option.

_Stephanie's –SH. _I reply and begin the mental countdown for the meltdown.

"What was missing?" I ask again, "I'm not an idiot Mr. Benson. There is something missing from that pantry. What was it? Money? You don't seem like bank-trusting people. Did she have a can with cash stashed away?" He straightens, surprised. "Perhaps jewelry? Has your family managed to hang on to some heirloom or prized possession?" I look at him for a moment and my phone goes off. I don't look at it yet. "What was it?"

He looks at my phone. "He isn't your concern!" I hold the phone up, indicating John although Troy has no real basis to determine that it is John who is texting me. He has probably assumed, but that assumption is not based on facts. "What is missing?"

The phone rings and John's face appears on the screen. Troy points to it and I ask again, "_What is missing_?"

The phone stops ringing, going to voicemail. It starts again a moment later and Troy speaks. "A box of things that belonged to Bella, letters, pictures, a few little items, nothing expensive or anything like that. Just senti…"

"…mental," I finish for him and answer the phone.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" John asks, not the anger I hoped to hear but disappointment, fear.

"You were sleeping," I say walking past Troy and pointing at him indicating that he should stay here. This is going to be a private conversation. I step out the front door and close it behind me.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" he asks. "How did you get there?"

"Troy," I say closing my eyes and wondering what John's gut reaction is. I'd know if I could see his face.

"Oh," he says, still not angry. I wish he was angry. "I, um, oh."

"I've learned a lot," I say. "How about breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," he says which I know is a lie. He's always hungry in the morning.

"John," I say and he interrupts the rest of my statement, which is probably for the best because I'm not entirely confident at what was going to come out of my mouth.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I know you, you think I can't handle it or you think, I don't know what you thought. It's okay. I guess I can find some things to do while you, um, investigate."

"John," I say again, about to apologise and he hangs up. I stare at the phone for a minute and realise that my other hand is resting over the dog tags hidden below my shirt. I'd put them on this morning as I was dressing, I didn't foresee myself wearing them every day, but I don't know for sure. I like the feel of them against my chest.

I walk back inside and Troy is standing exactly where I left him. "Is there anything else?" I ask staring at him, raising my voice enough to emphasis my point.

He shakes his head emphatically. "No, we didn't even realise that was missing until after, when Mum went into the pantry to get some food for Izzy." I nod; that makes sense and he appears to be telling the truth.

"Then take me back to John," I say and head back out the front door. I hear Troy following behind me.


	13. Chapter 13

2

The water is only lukewarm now, but I continue to stand underneath it. My head is facing down and the water is hitting the nape of my neck. It's sliding down my back and dripping between my legs. Initially, I'd had the water as hot as it would go and I can feel still feel the slight tightness from exposing my skin to water that was too hot. I'll be red when I get out but it will be worth it. I'll feel better.

I hope.

_The water is too cool for me, but Bella prefers it this way. She is standing in front of me, back pressed against my chest. She wiggles her ass against my erection and I let out a groan. She chuckles. _

"_Like that?" she asks, leaning her head back to rest on my shoulder. I can feel her hair brush against my arm and my side. I turn my head and nuzzle just under her ear and am rewarded with a quiet whimper. _

"_Mmmhmmm," I say sucking her ear lobe into my mouth. I use my teeth to gently bite it and her voice catches. _

"_What about you?" I begin. "How do you feel about this?" I flatten my palm against her nipple and push her breast. She gasps and thrusts forward then slams back against me. Her breasts are swollen and sensitive. _

"_Um," she whispers and I move my other hand down, slipping it between the wet folds. She's hot and ready. She lifts a leg and I use my index finger to brush against her nub. She thrust forwards again, forcing herself against my fingers. "There," she says bringing a hand down to hold mine steady. She moves against me again. "Oh yeah, there." _

_She starts to move her hips side to side, dragging her clitoris over my middle finger. _

"_Oh, John," she says and I adjust my fingers so that I can squeeze a nipple between my index finger and thumb. _

_She grunts and slams forward into my hand. _

"_God, John," she gasps, "please." I bite her ear lobe again gently and she releases the hand I have buried between her legs. I slide it further down and push two fingers into her. I cup her and she starts to grind against my hand. _

_I release her nipple and settle my hand against her stomach, helping to stabilise her. She braces herself against the wall and I feel it, just under my fingers. _

_Bella stops too, stiffening and dropping her leg back to the floor of the shower. Her hand settles on her stomach next to mine. _

_It happens again, a flutter almost, a tiny flicker._

"_Oh my god," Bella says, "Is that…"_

"_Yes," I say pushing my fingers into her skin in hopes of creating a reaction. It works, there is another flutter._

"_Oh my god," Bella says again moving her hand so that it is on top of mine. I can hear a hitch in her voice. I place a kiss on her shoulder. _

_We stand there until the water runs cold._

The water is cold as I reach for the shampoo. It doesn't bother me though. I am running my fingers through the lather when I hear the knock on the door.

"John," his voice comes through muffled by the wood, plaster, and thump of the water.

"I'm almost done," I respond. I'm glad I locked the door; he wouldn't hesitate to join me and then he'd be able to tell just how long I've been in here. That would just make him worry more than he already is.

He's worried enough to sneak out of the house, to make me stay behind. He's worried enough to deceive me.

I should be angry, I know that is what he expects of me. He's probably worried because it isn't the reaction that he got. He often gets upset when my emotional reaction isn't what he expects, as if there is some guidebook or instruction manual for how I am supposed to feel.

There isn't, even almost two and half years into this marriage he doesn't understand that. Well, I'm sorry that I didn't act as he expected.

I'm not angry. I'm not anything.

I rinse my hair and turn the water off. I stand there for a minute listening as the water drips onto the ceramic. I take a deep breath and push the curtain open.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is in the living room, sitting in the chair we sat in together last night. He has his left ankle resting on his right knee and he is pulling on his bottom lip with his fingers. He has his phone in one hand but he isn't looking at it. He's looking at nothing, staring at the wall.<p>

He turns and looks me up and down and an appreciative smile crosses his face. I am standing in the middle of the living room with just a towel wrapped around my waist, I should have expected as much. His smile fades quickly though, I assume that there is very little in my face or body language encouraging him.

"I'm sor –" he starts and I hold my hand up stopping him.

"It doesn't matter," I say and he frowns.

"But…"

"It doesn't matter," I repeat. "I know why you did it. I don't like it, but it's done. What did you learn?"

His frown grows and he shuffles uncomfortably in the seat. Finally he nods.

"I need to ask you some questions," he says, "about Bella."

"Why? What can I tell you?"

He shuffles some more. "Troy informed me today that the only thing obviously missing from the house was a box of personal items of Bella's." This surprises me; I wonder why none of them had mentioned it previously.

"I think Stephanie's disappearance might have something to do with her mother and was hoping you could tell me about her. I expect you knew her better than anyone else?"

I shift my weight from one foot to the other and cross my arms. "Well, honestly, then we're at a dead end. I obviously didn't know her at all."

"I fail to believe you were unfamiliar with the woman you were romantically involved with for years. You are very perceptive about other people, easily the most perceptive person I know – other than myself, of course. You knew her John; just because she lied to you does not mean you didn't know her."

I shake my head, I don't want to do this. I don't want to answer any questions, especially these questions.

"What happened today to change your mind? Last night you obviously thought she was dead." His eyebrow raises, "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. You wouldn't have withheld information from me if it was good. If you thought she just left and was happy somewhere you would have told me. You obviously thought she was dead."

"I've never once thought you were an idiot, John." I huff out a quick breath, I don't believe that. He stands and moves to stand in front of me. "I didn't want to upset you until I knew for certain. This has been hard for you; I have no desire to add to your distress."

His eyes are wide and sincere. I knew that already. I know that he just wants to protect me. That doesn't make it better though, it doesn't make me feel better. Not even a little.

I take a step back. "You still haven't told me what's different. Why is today different than yesterday?"

"There was a pill bottle missing from the medicine chest. I thought perhaps…"

Pills. Bella took pills. I take another step away from him. He takes a step towards me.

"They were Judy's and they were thrown out," he clarifies quickly. "She couldn't have taken them."

Pills. She didn't take the pills.

"Since the only thing missing from the house is the box, it makes sense that this has something to do with Bella. Hence…"

"…you asking me questions." I finish. I look down remembering that I am wrapped only in a towel.

"Yes." He reaches forward and places a hand on my shoulder. I look at the place where he is touching me. It feels different, wrong.

"Okay," I say, pulling away from him. "Let me go dress."

I can tell he doesn't want me to. He wants me to stay just like this, he probably wouldn't mind if I lost the towel. He wisely says nothing - it only took 4 years as a couple to learn that. Brilliant.

I turn and head into the bedroom, he doesn't follow. I toss the towel into the hamper and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt has the West Ham logo on it. Sherlock bought it for me last year even though he hates football. He doesn't know the difference between Man U and Man City, but he always remembers I like West Ham.

He remembers everything about me. Everything.

I'm the only thing that matters to him and I am in a very bad place right now.

It has to be hard for him. He barely handles the happy emotions, much less the more difficult ones.

I am the only reason he is here at all. I'm the only reason he's giving this case more than a passing thought.

I sigh and sit on the bed. I cover my face with my hands and lie back.

I hear the door open and close and can feel the slight change that Sherlock brings to any room. I don't look at him.

I feel his weight as it settles on the bed and a moment later his head is resting on my stomach. He is perpendicular to me and I bring a hand down to settle on his chest. He is warm and familiar under my palm and I spread out my fingers. I brush across the metal under his shirt and realise immediately what it must be. His hand comes up and covers mine.

"I'm sorry," he says and I don't interrupt him this time. "I don't like that these people can hurt you. I feel like I can't help you or protect you from them. They are too far inside you, too close."

I sigh and turn my head to the side so that I can see him. He turns and our eyes lock.

"Sometimes people hurt, Sherlock. Sometimes I'm going to hurt. That's life. I appreciate your wanting to protect me, I really do. Honestly. But I'm an adult, your husband, and your friend you have to have a little faith in my ability to handle this."

He frowns and I know that he is thinking about last night. I press my fingertips deeper into his chest. "Being here and dealing with this is upsetting to me. That's obvious." He huffs out a little breath, it _is _obvious. "I'm not a wilting flower though, surely you've noticed that. I am not going anywhere; I certainly won't be fading away because of any member of the Benson family. It hurts, yes, but I have an incredible husband who, until this morning, hadn't left my side through this whole ordeal. I'm confident that he'll be there through the end."

"I'm sorry," he says again. It's one of the few expressions that he'll repeat. The first time he offers an apology it is usually because he thinks that is what I want to hear. The second time is usually because he's genuinely feeling remorse. We've finally got there on this issue.

I nod, accepting his apology. I turn my head and look back towards the ceiling.

"Let's start with your questions, and then you can explain to me all that you've learned."

He takes a deep breath and brushes his fingers over mine and over the dog tags.

"Let's start with a description of her. How did you see her?"

I close my eyes and can see her clearly. Her long blond hair was almost always thrown over one shoulder. She had piercing blue eyes and a smile that lit up the room. Even the memory of her laugh can make me smile. She was always dreaming, always hoping. She wanted out of Wellow, out of Hampshire. She wanted to travel the world, learn new languages, meet new people. She could have done all of it and I never would have been surprised. She could have done anything that she wanted, anything at all.

She lied to me. She hurt me more than I knew I could hurt. She hurt me so much I wasn't sure I'd survive.

For a long time I loved her more than my life. For a long time after I hated her.

I open my mouth and begin talking, begin explaining my first love to the love of my life.

I know he's never wanted information less, but he'll listen. For me.


	14. Chapter 14

3

"You've already been through this house three times," he says as we stand in the living room of Stephanie's house.

"Yes, but I want you to lead me through it instead of Troy. I want you to tell me about it." After almost 4 years together John has often led me in directions I might otherwise not have gone. I am hoping that he will do so again.

"You do realise that before yesterday I hadn't been here in 20 years. Almost everything has changed."

"Almost nothing has changed," I state. "The furniture, the television, the carpet, they are all the same. I want you to tell me the other things that are the same and the things that are different."

He sighs and pushes his hands into his pockets. I know that he doesn't want to be here and I don't want him here, but I am going to trust him to know what his limits are. He asked that of me and I can grant it.

He turns in a circle looking around the living room. "Well, everything you said is the same: the carpet, the couch, the chair, the television, and the shelves. It doesn't look like the books have changed much, minus the new additions. Obviously the iPod dock and speakers are new, the photos are different."

"How?" I interrupt. "The photos, how are they different?"

He frowns as he looks at me. "They're newer, obviously."

I roll my eyes. "What where they before, do you remember specifics?" He continues to frown but closes his eyes. Over the years John's memory has improved a great deal; however, I have doubts about his ability to recall something from so long ago.

"In the hall there were collections of each of the Benson children," he says. "They were in chronological order, Matt, Troy, Bella." He points in the general direction of the hallway. "It was just a grouping of maybe five or six per child, each photo representing a different age." I look at the hallway where he is gesturing and there are only two photos there now, one of Izzy and one of Stephanie.

John keeps his eyes closed but points at the wall above the TV. "There were a collection of family photos on that wall. I don't know specifics just that there were a lot of them, too many. It was cluttered, cramped." Now there is a family picture of Stephanie, her uncles and grandmother. She's holding baby Izzy in her arms. There's also a picture of Stephanie as a child on a slide, and Izzy years later on the same slide.

"That's Knox Park," John says following my stare. "It's on the other side of town, has a playground, a cricket pitch, a field we played rugby in. Harry and Clara got married in the clubhouse there."

I turn, surprised to hear this. It never occurred to me that Harry and Clara were married in Wellow. I always assumed it was in London - they'd lived in London after all. I feel momentarily unbalanced, I don't like when my assumptions prove incorrect. I shake it off, it is not important.

"What else?" I ask and he looks behind me, on the wall opposite of the TV.

"There was a picture there, two actually." He frowns again. It's a frown of distaste. I've seen that look during trips to the Tate Modern and the occasional art gallery. I smile, art will never be John's area of expertise. He knows what he finds aesthetically pleasing and is satisfied with that no matter its quality. Sometimes he is a wonderfully simple man.

"One of them was the picture of that boy, you know the one. He's creepy, always watching. _The Boy in Blue _or something…"

"_The Blue Boy_," I say unable to contain my chuckle at my husband's description of such a famous painting.

"That's it," John says. "He was holding that stupid feathery cap." I chuckle again and shake my head. "The other one was similar, same kind of painting but it was a girl. Probably by the same bloke. She had on a white dress and a hat and I think red ribbons."

"They are pink ribbons," I correct. "It's _Pinkie_. They hang opposite of each other at the Hunting Library in California and I've often seen them grouped together. Different artists, though."

He nods, not caring about the names of the paintings. I know this about John. "They made the perfect creepy couple. I always felt like they were watching us."

I smile and realise that it's the first moment today that the melancholy has left him. I'm relieved to see John in his version of case mode, trying to recall something that will help me. For a moment, just a moment, this is just like any other case.

"I hated those damn things." He frowns at the memory and turns to examine the rest of the room. I believe that we've covered everything in here, but I will let him come to that conclusion. After a moment he nods his head.

I gesture towards the hallway. "Izzy's room," I say and he turns. He pauses for a moment and I know that he is hesitant because it was Bella's room. He takes a deep breath and starts to move. I stay a constant 3 steps behind him but he doesn't not falter or hesitate again. He opens the door easily and steps inside.

"This is all different," he says immediately and I am not surprised. It is a child's room now. There is a crib and a dresser. The walls are bright pink and there are ponies and cartoon characterisations of princesses around the room. It is fairly distasteful, but I'd image fairly typical for a female child of Izzy's age.

"The dresser is the same," he says looking at the piece of furniture. "It's been painted though. The wood was worn when Bella owned it. The fixtures are the same though, I remember always thinking how ugly they were."

He is correct, they are brass and flowered on the edges. They are showing the signs of age through dents and tarnish, but other than that it appears to be in excellent condition. It is a very well put together piece of furniture, I'd estimate that it was made in the late 1950's or early 1960's.

"How did it look when it was Bella's room?" I ask.

He looks and points to the far wall, under the window. "The bed was there - it was just a single."

"Convenient," I say. He turns and looks at me, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Made it easier for you when you climbed into the window," I add.

He frowns for a second before smiling. He won't ask how I knew, not realising that I really didn't know. I guessed because it seems like the type of thing John would have done in his youth. "Yeah," he says. "It was nice to have something soft to land on." He keeps smiling as he continues his description.

"There was a desk over there, a small chair. There were some shelves that had dolls and some stuffed animals on them hanging above it. Her dad made them for her." He frowns. "Where is all that stuff?" he asks and looks towards me. "The shelves took him months, Judy wouldn't have just thrown them out. I didn't see them in her room." He looks around again. "And the dolls, Judy bought them all for her." He walks past me and to the front bedroom. I follow behind, surprised to find him opening the closet.

"John?" He closes the door and looks around the room. His brow furrows as his frown deepens. He walks past me again, and down the hallway.

"There isn't an attic here, right?" He's stares at the ceiling, looking for the cut out.

"No," I say, having noted that immediately. He continues looking though, going into the master bedroom. He only glances at the ceiling in there, but it annoys me. I'm not wrong about this. He heads right to the closet and pushes the door open.

"What are you looking for?" I ask.

"The stuff, the dolls, the shelves, the pictures, people don't just throw that stuff away, Sherlock. They hang on to it." He glances at me quickly. "Sentiment," he adds moving some of the clothing items out of the way.

He looks at the floor and the shelf on top before closing the door and heading towards the kitchen. He heads to the pantry immediately where the box of Bella's possessions was kept. He opens it and looks up and down. The top two shelves have a collection of odd items, candle sticks, vases, another box that John pulls out and reveals cloth napkins and a table cloth. There is also the obvious space where a box is missing.

"It's only about shoe box sized," he says. "Bella kept dozens of photos and magazine clippings. She liked to cut pictures out of magazines that she thought were pretty or of things she wanted or places she wanted to go. It all wouldn't have fit in just a shoebox."

He closes the door and meets my eyes. This is my John again, working. He looks away thinking and his eyes go wide as he realises something. He slaps the counter as he walks past me and out the front door.

He's almost at the garage when I catch up with him.

I can't imagine storing anything of value in there. It doesn't have a door, obviously it was hit by a car at some point and has never been replaced. There is a bicycle clearly rusted beyond repair and tools and a spade that have clearly met the same fate.

"John," I call after him as he climbs over what looks like it used to be a folding table. The whole place looks like a bacteria-infested, tetanus-inducing nightmare. I don't particularly like the idea of my husband walking around in there. I don't trust his observational skills in the dark room and he's likely to scrape himself on a nail or yard implement.

He doesn't stop moving. I momentarily consider going into the house for a torch, but decide against it.

"John," I say again, not bothering to hide my distaste.

I peer into the garage expecting complete darkness, but John is holding his phone up lighting the area around him. I climb over the table and head in his direction.

"These were Bella's," he says as I climb over a plastic set of storage shelves to stand next to my husband. His phone goes off and we are in darkness for a moment before he lights the area again. He's pointing at a set of wood shelves leaning against a wall. Obviously handmade, and, while not expertly so, the craftsman was competent.

"Here," he says, looking to the left. _The Blue Boy_ and _Pinkie_ are also leaning against the wall. I am surprised that they aren't showing signs of exposure but perhaps it is dry enough in the back of the garage to prevent that.

"These were hers." He points to a grouping of blue heavy duty suitcases. "She always talked about travelling the world, so Mum and I split the cost for her 18th birthday." He pauses and I watch his face, there is a faint smile there. "Actually, Mum bought them, I was supposed to pay her back. I never did."

I frown it, isn't like John to ignore a debt like that. I can only assume it was because he was young.

"There's one missing," I say and he looks at me. "The luggage set should have included a larger suitcase as well." He looks down at them, trying to recall. After a moment he nods, accepting that I am correct.

He hands me the phone and grabs the largest of the remaining suitcases. He sets it on top of what used to be a work bench and opens the zip. I can only imagine what kinds of vermin are living in this garage and I examine the outside quickly for evidence that anything has burrowed through. It appears not.

The suitcase is full of paper. John pulls some out and I hold the light over his shoulder so we can examine it. "These," he looks back over his shoulder at me, "these were Bella's."

We are looking at a picture of Hong Kong. I reach over and grab another item. "New York," I say. John nods. I frown though and shake my head. "Couldn't be Bella's." I hand the picture to him and he studies it for a moment. He doesn't see it right away, not that I expect him to really. It's a foreign city and John has only ever been to one of its airports.

"The World Trade Center towers," he says. "They aren't there." I nod; he figured it out after all. Bella would not have had a post-9/11 picture. "Stephanie?" he asks to no one in particular.

"It makes the most sense. Why don't we get these in the house?"

He nods, closes the suitcase and hands it to me. I hold up the light while he grabs the other two.


	15. Chapter 15

4.

I stare at the collection of photos, clippings, and articles that Sherlock and I have spent the last 4 hours organising. There is an odd combination of newer pictures that must be Stephanie's and older ones that I recognise as Bella's. There is also a diary sitting awkwardly between us. Based on its apparent age Sherlock believes that it's Bella's and not Stephanie's. He also says that the lock has been picked fairly recently and inexpertly. I assume by Stephanie.

I wonder what Stephanie learned about her mother in those pages. I'm not sure I want to know.

The results of all of this are obvious.

"She left," I say and Sherlock looks over at me from his place on the floor. He is studying a series of articles we located about making easy money. Sherlock had immediately declared them ridiculous before setting in to examine them.

He shifts his position, drawing a knee to his chest and wrapping his arms around it.

"We do not know that," he says.

"Can't we assume?" It only makes sense, but Sherlock shakes his head, emphasising my stupidity, and looking back towards the article.

I sigh and turn back to the pile of pictures.

"None of these are easily implemented," he says a moment later and pushes the pile away. He runs a hand over his face and looks back at me.

He picks up the smallest of the suitcases and begins to open all of the pockets again. He found a fiver in there a while ago and thinks she might have been keeping money in it. Especially as it is the only one that isn't filled to the brim now.

The biggest one had all the paper, the next one had clothes. Bella's clothes.

I look over at the pile he made on the floor as he sorted through them. I remember some of them clearly. The pink shirt was her favourite; it too had been a birthday present. A pair of jeans that she'd wear all the time. A rugby shirt from our local league. It had been mine.

"_I'm so fat", she says and I look over at her. She's standing in front of the mirror hanging on door. I roll over and prop myself up on my elbow and look at her. _

"_You're pregnant, Bella, not fat." She places her hands on her stomach and looks over at me. She isn't even showing all that much. "You're beautiful," I tell her, because it's true. _

_She rolls her eyes and examines herself in the mirror. "My clothes are getting too small." _

"_You're pregnant," I say again, unable to keep from smiling at her. She rolls her eyes. _

"_I need a shirt." She walks over to my dresser and opens the top drawer. She pulls one of my rugby t-shirts out of pulls it over her head. It covers just enough for modesty's sake, but not too much. She turns to look at me again. The shirt is tight enough on her chest to emphasise her breasts. Her stomach isn't the only thing that's growing. _

_She climbs back up onto the bed and I can honestly say that I don't mind any of the changes._

"Did Bella show a preference for one part of the world over any other?" I look at Sherlock and he's examining a group of photos and cut outs. I think it's the Asia pile.

I shake my head. "No. Just cities, she always wanted to live in a big city." Sherlock nods.

"Not unusual for a person who grew up in a small village. You yourself ended up in London."

"I'd have been happy here," I say, surprising both Sherlock and myself. He examines me for a moment before turning back to the pictures.

"I don't believe that," he says. "You would have stayed here. I have no doubt of that. You'd have done what was right and what was required of you. You might have been satisfied, but you'd never have been truly happy or as happy as you could be. You are bigger than this village, John." He looks towards me again. "I hope you know that."

I smile at him and I get a tentative smile in return. He's right of course, I can't imagine having lived my whole life here, having raised a family, and gone to the village fete every year. It has very little to do with London, though; I could be perfectly happy out of London. I know I wouldn't be happy without Sherlock.

I nod and look away. I know that he understands that.

"It appears that for every city Bella had a picture of, Stephanie obtained a picture of as well. They appear to come from travel magazines, websites, anywhere really. She obviously wanted to live out her mother's dreams." He sighs taking a quick look at the picture on the wall. "I doubt having a child at 18 fit into her plans."

"It didn't fit into Bella's plans either," I say, "although thinking about it; she never seemed truly upset by it. If anything she…"

"It was one way of securing you." I don't quite believe that but Sherlock seems serious. "I don't think it was intentional, but I think she took advantage of what she had in front of her."

I look at a picture of Bella that we pulled from the suitcase. She's holding Stephanie, who couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. I wonder vaguely where this photo fits in relation to my leaving for my first army training. Was this before or after she came to the train station? I can't tell. Bella looks happy though, showing the baby off to the camera. Stephanie is asleep and Bella's smile is shining. This is long before she found me with Phillip and before that smile would be gone forever.

"Stephanie seems to show a preference for American cities, Los Angeles in particular. Perhaps she holds secret desires to become an actress or director or whatever else happens in that city." He holds up a collection of photos cut out of a magazine. They are a mix of the iconic white Hollywood sign, a few of a city skyline, and a couple paparazzi photos of celebrities shopping or walking down the pavement.

"Can we find out if she left the country?" I ask. "Mycroft would do that for us."

Sherlock frowns at me and nods. "I'm sure he would if _you_ asked him to."

"Well we need to make sure that she's okay." Sherlock doesn't say anything, just turns back to his piles and starts searching. I turn back to the small collection of family pictures that we pulled out of the box.

The vast majority of them are of Bella, but there are a few of Stephanie. It actually becomes harder to distinguish between them as Stephanie ages. She looks so much like Bella anyway, but she lightens her hair, increasing the likeness, and starts to dress like her. I guess it relates to fashion and its cyclical nature. Bella's style has come back into popularity again.

The last one is of Stephanie holding baby Izzy out to the camera. She couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. I wonder who Izzy's father is. I wonder if Stephanie tracked him down at a train station and held out her baby as a peace offering. I wonder if she did that to the man she wanted to be the father instead.

"Bella left her daughter." I look down at the picture before setting it back on the table. "So did Stephanie." I look at the piles around the room. Pictures of most of the world's major cities combined with information about life in various countries, travel magazines, and maps. "We might not be able to actually prove that, but we both now that she just left. She walked away from it all, leaving Izzy behind just as her mother left her behind."

"You think she killed herself?" Sherlock asks.

"It's looking less and less likely, right? Isn't that what you're thinking? Where's her body? If she was going to make a statement with her death, be like her mother, why would she go off into the woods where nobody could find her? She'd have done it here, just as Bella did."

Sherlock doesn't move for a moment and then he nods. "Probably," he says, "but I want to be certain. For you."

"This isn't about me," I say. "I know you're here for me, but it isn't about me. It's about that little girl and doing what's right by her." I sit back on the couch and cover my face with my hands. "When I called Lestrade, he told me. He said I should prepare them for the fact that she just left. That's what she did, isn't it? She just left. She packed up, I don't know what, some of her clothes that wouldn't be missed. Some of Bella's clothes," I gesture towards the suitcase with her clothing piled around it. "Maybe she squirreled away some money, for years perhaps. Maybe she made a clean break, not taking anything. She didn't own a car, so she didn't drive, but maybe she had a friend. Maybe she walked. Hell, she was a pretty girl, it couldn't be that hard to get someone to buy her train ticket. Maybe she went to London, or Cardiff, or Edinburgh. Maybe she went to Southampton and jumped on a cruise ship. _I should prepare them for the fact that she just left._ Maybe we'll never know, never find her. Maybe it's better that way." I stop talking, and take a deep breath. I hold it trying to centre myself in this room, and control the anger, guilt, and sadness I feel.

"I'm impressed. I suppose even Lestrade is bound to be correct once in a while." His words hang awkwardly for a moment. I release my breath and despite myself I start to laugh. After a moment I can't breathe and I'm bending over, holding my side. I'm wheezing as the tears start to fall down my cheeks. It feels wonderful to laugh, even amidst the mess that I've dragged us both into. It's a nice momentary reprieve from today's - hell, this weekend's events. It's nice to hear Sherlock laughing, too.

I manage to calm myself finally and realise that we will have to tell the Bensons that Stephanie's gone. I'm sure Lestrade or Mycroft could find evidence of her leaving the country, but I won't ask them to. Neither will Sherlock. She's an adult, she has the right to leave. It was not the responsible decision or the right one for her daughter, but it was hers to make. And it could be worse, she could have left the way Bella did.

I can't actually blame her.

And at least she's alive, most likely. Sherlock thinks so and I trust his thoughts and assumptions more than most other people's facts. If he thinks she's alive, I'm willing to believe it, and I'm more thankful for it than I can say.

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone chirps with a text message. He reaches to the table and grabs it. I watch as he looks at the message. He leans over and sets the phone back on the table before pushing it in my direction. I reluctantly lean forward and pick it up.

Sherlock starts to pick up the pile of Asia pictures, cleaning up.

The message is from Lestrade. "No matching person found in UK through Interpol or Europol."

"You had him looking for her body."

Sherlock nods. "That was after I found that there was a pill bottle missing."

That's what he was waiting for, why he wouldn't tell me. He was waiting to get the final word that they'd found her. I put the phone down.

"We have to tell Troy." We have to tell him that his niece left with no evidence that she's planning on coming back. We have to tell him that she abandoned her daughter and that no one in the family knew her at all. We have to tell her that she's more like Bella than anyone could ever have imagined, but not enough like her to be dead.

"I'll do it." His voice is sharp.

"No," I respond, equally as sharp. I'll fight on this if need be. He needs to know that. "I'll be there. You can call him and have him meet us at the house, but I'll be there."

Sherlock doesn't like it. That is apparent in every muscle of his body. But he won't fight me, not after last night. He gives a quick nod and continues to pick up piles of papers.

I have a few more things I'd like to tell Troy, too.

* * *

><p>I order another pizza. It isn't mine or Sherlock's favourite, but it will come to us and is easy to share with Troy if he's still here when it's delivered.<p>

Sherlock is with him now, explaining all that we found, all that we know. I wasn't interested in that part. What I have to say to Troy can wait until he is up to speed.

I grab three beers out of the fridge and head back to the living room. Troy is sitting in the chair that Sherlock and I were naked in last night and Sherlock is on the couch. I set Troy's beer on the small table next to him and join my husband. As soon as I am seated, Sherlock places a hand on my thigh, a surprising gesture given that there is company but I do not push it away. I know that it is intended as part comfort and part claim. I welcome both.

"Why?" Troy asks and I notice Sherlock roll his eyes. It probably isn't the first time that Troy has asked that.

"She's young and her life so far has been particularly unpleasant," Sherlock answers with a very Sherlockian summary.

"But she loves Izzy," he says. "She was a good mum."

"That doesn't mean she was enjoying being a mother. Like your mother said, having children is hard, especially when you are alone and you are young. It isn't as if anyone in your family was going out of their way to be of assistance to her. Perhaps she determined that her daughter would benefit more from her absence than her presence."

Troy looks away and I see the flash of guilt there. It looks the same as it did when he accidentally broke Ms. Henderson's window while we played footy.

I feel like this is my moment and I jump in. "You have to take her, Troy." He looks at me, confused. "Izzy. You and Gina have to take her, you can't let her stay with your mum. Or Matt, he seems like he's doing okay, but not your mum. You can't leave that little girl in her hands."

He starts to shake his head and I lean forward. "This isn't optional. Somebody has to be responsible and it's time that it was you. I understand that you didn't ask for this. Trust me, I know exactly what that feels like, but nobody took responsibility after Bella and no one wants to after Stephanie. You have to, or as God as my witness I will…" I stop and shake my head.

"You beat the hell out of me after I left Bella. I lay on the ground and you kicked me. You screamed at me that I had to take responsibility for what I did and that I couldn't just leave my child. Do you remember that?" I ask even though he must. Sherlock is tense next to me, liking Troy just a little less than he already did. "How did you feel when you found out I was wronged, too? That she'd lied to all of us? Did you feel guilty? Because I've never got an apology and I don't want one. I want you to take that little girl and keep her away from your mother. I want you to give her stability and safety and love. I don't care how much like her mother she is, or how much like her grandmother. I want you to do that because there is no one else and she deserves better."

He nods and looks down at his hands. "I'll talk to Gina…"

"No," I repeat, "you'll do this. Your mother still blames me for Bella's death. She blames me. I was lied to and beaten up and somehow I'm at fault? How the hell does that work? If I'd only accepted and loved her anyway? No. In one swift doctor's visit I lost everything, I lost Bella and I lost a child that I loved, not because she died, but because of a lie. I was wronged by your sister and your family and I am here to collect retribution. You will do this or you will never, ever see that child again. And I will spend the rest of my life making yours hell."

He nods, not fighting me. I realise suddenly that he's a coward. I wonder if he always was and I just didn't know. I relax back into the couch, not realising that I'd tensed up. Sherlock is still alert next to me, perhaps prepared to attack should Troy suddenly decide he wants to kick my face in again. Or perhaps it's just his general distaste for Troy and this situation.

We sit in silence for a long time. Troy is absently studying some empty spot on the carpet. He's thinking, I assume, processing, deciding. I'm thinking about asking him to leave when he finally speaks.

"What about clothes?" He says after a minute. "None of her clothes were missing?"

"A suitcase is." Sherlock points to the set. Troy nods at it and understands.

"She took some of Bella's things," he whispers to himself.

"Many of the items would be stylish again. I'd imagine that's important when you are 20. It would probably also make her feel a connection with her mother. I imagine that was never encouraged by your mother."

Troy nods again, he appears smaller as the guilt starts to weigh on him. Sherlock is correct on this as well. I understand Stephanie's decision more and more. I wonder what Bella would have thought about it.

I'm startled to realise that she would probably have supported it completely, even with leaving Izzy behind. I reach down and grab my husband's hand. Suddenly I want to be touching him. Our fingers weave together with practiced ease and Troy stares at us. If he disapproves he doesn't show it, at least not that I notice. For some reason I find comfort in the fact that he's more enlightened than I expected and definitely more so than his mother. Maybe Izzy will have a chance after all.

"Do you know where she went?" He addresses his question directly to Sherlock and I notice a slight twitch on Sherlock's lips. I'm astonished to see that he knows, or has a very good idea. I wonder what gave it away. I wonder why he didn't mention that to me. It must be Los Angeles, it was the only city that we even discussed at all. I hope like hell that he lies to about it.

He does.

"No idea," he answers. "There are pictures of approximately 25 cities, she could easily disappear into any of them. Cities like Hong Kong and New York are great places to remain undetected. The planning that went into this is admirable."

Troy frowns at that. He glances at his beer before grabbing it and drinking most of it down in a long swallow. He stands then and looks at us.

"Thank you," he says showing a flash of genuine gratitude. I guess at least he has some kind of answer now and, while it is by no means good news, it could certainly be worse.

Sherlock and I stand and Sherlock offers Troy his hand. They shake awkwardly for a long second before Troy offers it to me. I shake it, feeling absolutely no connection to this man who was my friend. I'm surprised by that, but only for a moment.

"I'm serious," I say tightening my hand around his. "Don't leave her with Judy, do the right thing Troy, just this once."

He's taken aback for a second before nodding his hands. "I will. Gina will be behind it 100 percent." He sighs and looks at my husband. "She isn't particularly a fan of Mum, either."

He pauses at the door for a moment, hand on the knob. "She just left," he says and shakes his head.

He opens the door and walks out.


	16. Chapter 16

Monday

1

John frowns at me when I pick up the diary. I don't know what he expects; he hasn't wanted to do anything since Troy left.

"_Are you going to eat your pizza?"_

"_I'm not hungry." _

"_Do you want to watch telly?" _

"_Not really."_

"_Do you want to help me go through some more boxes?"_

"_No, go ahead. I'm just going to sit here a while." _

"_Do you want to shag?"_

He hadn't even looked at me then, not even a glance. "Later, maybe."

Later? When? It was already 1 a.m. at that point. We are now approaching 3 a.m. and no hint that there will be any shagging anytime soon. In fact, he doesn't seem inclined to do anything. He sat on the couch a while, curled up staring at the wall. He paced for a while. He stared out the window for a while. He wanted to go for a walk until I pointed out it was after midnight. We are in Wellow, where two men dressed in dark clothing prowling around after midnight is likely grounds for arrest.

I don't know what else to do. He doesn't want to talk or sit with me or shag? We don't do much else.

"Do you want to be alone?" I asked him at one point, feeling particularly frustrated. He turned at me and appeared genuinely shocked.

"No," he'd said. "I mean, you don't have to stay if you don't want to." He looked away. "But I'd like you to."

He'd like me to stay and watch him go through this mental self-flagellation. He'd seemed better with Troy, the best he'd seemed since we got here. He'd been determined and angry and John. But Troy was barely out the door when John's melancholy returned.

I'm becoming concerned that this mood will follow us back to London.

I grab the diary out of boredom and frustration. It is the only book in the house of any real interest.

He watches me grab it and frowns, I expect him to tell me not to read it. At least that will be a response to something, a reaction. Instead, he continues to frown and turns his attention back out of the window.

It's almost 3 a.m.; it isn't as if there is anything for him to see out there. This isn't London after all. Wellow is asleep and has been for quite a while.

I should find comfort in the fact that he trusts me not to share the information with him. If he wants to know what is in the diary he can read it or he can ask me. It is not dissimilar to my having the knowledge about Stephanie's location. I think it's obvious where she went, but I will not volunteer the information unless John asks me. I don't believe he will, at least not right away. I believe his feelings on Stephanie's departure are mixed.

I hope that he figures them out soon; I don't appreciate seeing my husband in this disconcerted state.

I watch him for another moment before I settle back into the chair and open the diary. At first glance it appears that Bella didn't keep it regularly. The diary is only made for a year's time, but clearly spans a longer period than that.

After the first few entries I decide to start scanning for mentions of John instead of reading the entire thing. The comments about clothing that she wanted or her friends' romantic interests or how horrible her family is are tedious and I'd rather avoid them. However, she might be able to provide additional insight into my husband and that I am very interested in.

_Went to John's rugby match today. He got pushed face first into the ground and bruised his cheek. He's lucky he didn't break his nose. Although he got right back up and kept playing. He had a clump of grass in his hair the rest of the match. Hilarious and adorable. _

I look up at my husband and can picture the moment clearly even though it was years before I would know him.

_Mum and Dad are spending the night at Gran's. It's nice to be alone for a while. I called John, he should make an appearance tonight. Glad I bought the new lingerie. _

I cringe at the thought and make a mental to avoid or immediately delete the rest of the sexual references. I am momentarily tempted to compare notes, to compare quality and quantity, but the thought of knowing details actually makes my stomach ache. I don't want to know.

I scroll through several more entries that are of little interest. I am fairly certain that were she alive I'd have hated her. And not just because she was John's previous lover - based on her diary, she was a complete idiot.

Although that can't be completely accurate either, I doubt John would love a complete idiot.

_It's official. John's going to Uni in London. Happy for him because he is happy, but sad for me. I'm going to miss him so much, it hurts already. And I'm nervous, it's London, he's going to love it. What if he never wants to come home? What if he never wants me to visit? What if he meets someone new?_

_What am I going to do stuck here? I hate it here. _

I hate the idea that he loved her, but the idea that she loved him is not as disturbing. I am probably biased in this area. I can't imagine not loving John. I can't imagine how everyone doesn't. In this, Bella Benson and I are the same.

Well, not really. She lost him and I found him.

_John left this morning. I surprised him by getting up early and saying good-bye before he went to the station with his mum. She's so funny, pretending she forgot something so that we could say good-bye. I hope she'll let me visit with her while John is gone. I think I'll miss her as much as John at times. She's always so sweet to me. _

_He's gone though. He'll be home in a month for a weekend, and I can visit him after that. It'll be ok and I'll be able to join him in a year. It's only a year. _

_We'll get a flat together then, even if we have to live with Harry. _

I huff at that and John turns to look at me. His face contorts with curiosity for a moment, but he talks himself out of asking. I just continue to skim, unable to keep the thought of John and Bella living with Harry out of my head. Clara could have moved in, too. It could have been like that show Mrs. Hudson enjoys, where all the people live in one house.

_Sarah's birthday party tonight. Don't know what to wear. Her parents are out of town and Troy is buying beer for me to take. Lots of drinking coming up, yay! Packing pyjamas so I don't have to come home til morning. Got to be home by noon though, John calls tomorrow. _

I frown and turn the page curious if there is an entry on the following day. There isn't. I do the math quickly in my head and this could easily be the night Stephanie was conceived. Interesting that Bella didn't write about the incident in her diary. I am curious as to the reasoning behind the lack of an entry. Was it so that others wouldn't find out? John for example? John isn't the type to read someone else's diary, even Bella's. Was it denial? Perhaps she was trying to lie to herself.

There are very few entries after that one. John isn't mentioned again until the last one, although there is one mentioning how she ruined everything. I think it's safe to assume that was when John figured it out. The last entry, the one the mentions John by name, is when Bella went to London to surprise John. She doesn't write about what she finds there. She doesn't write about Phillip or her suicide or anything.

I am surprised by a pang of sympathy that I have for her. The naïveté that she showed is astonishing. I don't believe that she took any of it seriously. Apparently, finding John with _Phillip _would make her realise that.

And then she'd kill herself, like a coward. She didn't deserve John. She didn't deserve to be miserable either. She didn't deserve to die.

I close the book and toss it gently back onto the suitcases. I wonder what Stephanie took away from that book, what she learned about her mother. It clearly wasn't anything positive.

She obviously found the inspiration she needed to escape. She obviously found hope of life outside of Wellow. She obviously found whatever it was she needed to abandon her daughter.

I sigh and rest my head on the back of the chair. I glance at the clock, it's approaching 4 am. John is still standing at the window. Even looking at his profile I can see the dark circles appearing. John is never up this late unless it involves a case, a regular case, not this case. He isn't up because of this case. He's up because of Stephanie and Bella and Izzy. He's up because he's worried, because he feels guilty, because he's John.

"John?" I say my voice quieter than usual but still loud in the silent house.

He turns immediately, his exhaustion even more apparent face on. It makes my heart tighten and my chest hurt. I hate that I don't know how to fix this.

"Let's go to bed." I say, holding out a hand for him to help me up. He looks at it a moment. I realise that he's going to say no. I speak again before he can. I know that John is usually susceptible to a change in phrasing.

"Come to bed with me, please?" His brow furrows and I watch as his decision changes. He'll come, not because he wants to go to bed, but because I asked him. I asked him to do something for me. Perhaps I should feel guilty about this, but I do not. He needs sleep, desperately.

This will be better after sleep, it has to be.

He closes the distance between us and takes my hand. He grunts as I actually make him take some of my weight as he helps me up. At home this would earn me a sigh of fake exasperation or a comment about my inherent laziness. I don't get either today, but I notice a flash of amusement in his eyes. It is just a flash, but it is familiar and I am glad to see it.

I stand next to him and as he turns to head down the hallway I grab him around the shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and feel him stiffen against me. It is uncomfortable for just a moment but he relaxes quickly. His arms wrap around my waist and he buries his face into my chest. He takes a deep breath and I can almost feel some of the stress easing out of him.

I place a kiss above his ear and he sighs.

Things will be better after sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Warning – The whole story is rated M, but this chapter is particularly so.

2.

I jolt awake, my eyes flying open and a silent gasp escaping my lips.

Bella, I dreamt of Bella. She was talking to me. I can see the image of her, clear in my mind. It wasn't a memory. It was as if I was dreaming about her now, as if she was still alive. We'd been talking about Stephanie, I think. I try to grasp at it but the images are fading.

Sherlock's arm drops to my lap as I sit up. He shifts against me, moving until his face is resting against my thigh. I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes.

Sherlock mumbles my name quietly but doesn't move any more. I listen as his breathing evens out and his sleep deepens. I rest a hand on his arm and glance at the clock. It's only 4:47. We've been in bed less than an hour. I sigh, realising that I won't be sleeping again. It's going to be a long day.

I move his arm off of me and stand. I stretch my back, feeling the tension of the past four days as it settles in my spine. It hurts and I'll be happy to be away from here again.

I look back at my husband as he sprawls out onto my side of the bed. Every time I get out of bed, he moves to lie where I was. I used to find it annoying, especially if I just got up to use the loo or something. However, it's something that is so fundamentally a part of Sherlock that I've adjusted to it. I can manoeuver him out of the way when needed or I'll sleep around him, on top of him, or settle on the couch. He's always annoyed when he wakes up without me, but it is his fault after all.

I feel myself smile as I watch his form. It feels good to smile, a real one, brought on by something happy. Sherlock can almost always do that, especially when he's half naked in bed.

I let my eyes wander over the lean muscles on his back as he shifts his face into my pillow. I never once even considered that I'd see Sherlock Holmes sleeping in my childhood bed. I don't think I ever thought I'd bring him here.

I'm glad I did though, I'm glad I get to see him like this, here.

I just wish it would have been for different reasons. I wish I was more enjoyable company. I wish he wasn't worried about me.

I lean down and press a kiss onto his sleeping head. He mumbles something incoherent then sucks in a deep breath. I watch him for another moment, secretly hoping that he'll wake up and keep me company. He doesn't, he settles deeper into the pillow and his quiet snores fill the space.

I stretch again and head out of the bedroom.

I settle on the couch, grabbing one of the throw blankets my mother always kept around to cover my legs.

I stare at the collection of suitcases Sherlock piled near the door after Troy left. I don't know what he's planning on doing with them. Leave them here, give them to Troy, drop them back of at Stephanie's house.

I have a sudden sharp urge to carry them home with us and pack them away so that they will stay safe. But it fades quickly. They don't belong to me and aren't mine to keep. Even the part of Bella that did belong to me can't be found in those suitcases. I sigh and lean my head back.

I let my mind wander over the "case" again. Stephanie, just leaving. She woke up that morning and fed, bathed, and dressed her daughter. She kissed her head as she set her back in her bed and just left. She took a suitcase she would have had to pack days before and left. How did she do that?

How did Bella put Stephanie down for the night go into the bathroom and swallow a bottle of pills?

I don't understand it. How do you get to the point where that is the right decision?

But I do. I do understand.

I can't think about suicide without thinking about the days when I got home from Afghanistan, the darkest days of my life. The thought crossed my mind; I understand how someone can get there. I understand what it's like to have nothing. To think that you have nothing even when you have everything.

Bella had everything to live for. So did I, even if I didn't realise it.

If I'd killed myself I'd have missed out on everything, my whole life, Sherlock. What a waste it would have been.

At least Stephanie didn't take the coward's way out; at least she just walked away. It's marginally better and, given her history, not surprising. I can see the appeal. Nobody ever showed her it could be different. Nobody had really loved her. She had to feel useless, pointless, unworthy. I'd had an amazingly happy childhood and I'd still ended up feeling those things.

She felt trapped and alone, and she saw her chance to escape. She took it.

I just hope that Troy makes it easier for Izzy. I hope the cycle is broken. I hope that little girl has a chance.

The little girl who could have been my granddaughter. I can't imagine being my age and being a grandpa. The idea is preposterous, but it also seems possible.

I sigh again. It's all in the past.

Fundamentally, that's what it comes down to. It's the past and the past has no place in the present. Bella is where she belongs, the place she'd be even if she was alive, in my past.

Judy will never understand that, even if Bella had begged, even if there had been no Phillip. It wouldn't have worked. I couldn't live with the lies. I couldn't stay in Wellow.

I'm sorry Bella is dead. Sorrier than I can say, but I wouldn't change any of it.

I look towards the hallway, towards my husband. I wouldn't change a single moment.

The past is the past and it has no place in the present.

I take a deep breath and I let it out slowly. It starts to leave me, all of it. The guilt, the anger, the frustration are all gone. I feel, I don't know, human again, like John again.

The past is the past and I won't live in it.

I stand and stretch again, the muscles are still tight, but loosen this time, releasing some of their tension. Perhaps I can persuade my husband to give me a massage. Perhaps I'll wake him up to do so. Unlike me, Sherlock doesn't mind so much if I wake him up. Especially if there is a promise of sex.

Sherlock doesn't mind almost anything as long as there is a promise of sex.

I start to walk towards the hallway and see the box. The cigar box that we'd looked through just two days ago, barely over 24 hours. It seems like a lifetime ago. I open it and the picture of Bella is sitting on top.

Bella.

I hold the photo up and stare at it for a moment. Bella. I still feel a hint of regret and longing looking at her, looking at we could have been. But it's okay. I'm better than okay now. In fact, I'm as good as I've ever been.

I pull the ticket from the concert my dad took me to and the rose my mother gave me out of the box. I set them on the table. I poke through the contents one more time. I pull out a cheap plastic ring from the bottom of the box. Harry had won it during a game at the fete one year. She'd probably been 7. I remember trying to win one for myself and failing. I'd cried and I'd cried, distraught that I didn't have one, too. Mum had taken us home after, upset at my behaviour.

I'd been sitting on my bed when Harry had brought me the ring. She told me that she didn't really want it, but even then I'd known she was lying. She felt bad that I didn't have one. I'd slept with it under my pillow forever and found it in a desk drawer when I was a teenager. I'd added it to my box without hesitation. I set it with the flower and the ticket and close the box.

The past is the past.

I move it to the pile of stuff we have to put back in the attic. It doesn't need to go home with me. The things that are really important are already there. The other things, the memories, are where they belong. In my memory.

I walk down the hallway.

Sherlock has rolled over, now he's sprawled diagonally across the bed on his back. His head is still on my pillow but his body is spread out over the rest.

The sheet has slipped down and is bunched around his thighs. He must be having an interesting dream because the beginnings of an erection are visible beneath his boxers. I smile; at least he's in the right frame of mind.

I feel the sweep of pleasure as my body begins to respond to the sight of him. It's still amazing to me that his very presence can make me feel so good. And this whole weekend he's been patiently holding the torch and leading me out of the darkness. He's been kind and supportive and just here for me. It's probably the hardest thing he's ever done. He doesn't do patience or inactivity very well, not to mention emotional uncertainty. I'm lucky he just didn't pack up and go home. It's a testament to how much I mean to him that he didn't. I know that no one else would be granted such consideration.

I place a knee on the bed slowly adjusting my weight so I don't wake him. I'd rather wake him with something more pleasurable than my climbing back into bed.

I reach out and gently dance my fingers up his inner thigh. He shifts immediately, pushing his leg farther out allowing me better access. I move up to the edge of his boxers and then work back down.

There is a slight hitch in his breath and he turns his head. I pause for a moment, verifying that he is still asleep, before I continue.

The hairs are coarse under my fingers as I repeat the process on his other leg. The skin is soft underneath them. I dip my fingers under the boxers this time reach up able to feel more coarse hairs as I reach the juncture where thigh meets groin. He lets out a quiet grunt and spreads his legs just a fraction more. I smile and gently pull my fingers away and am rewarded with a quiet whimper.

I can almost see the blood flooding to his groin. He continues to grow harder. I shift my weight so that I can dance my fingers across his erection. I barely touch the cotton of the boxers but he pushes up slightly into my hand. The movement causes my fingers to press into him and an instant later there is a hand clasping down on my wrist. I look up and see grey eyes staring back at me. They are alert and aware, barely showing that they were asleep just a moment before.

I smile at him and twist my wrist. He watches me for a moment before he lets go. I use my index finger to trace up him again, using more pressure now that he is awake. I keep my eyes on his face and, as I gently press into the head, his eyes flutter closed. He takes his lower lip into his mouth. He's trying to be quiet.

We can't have that.

I bend my head down and kiss his inner thigh. I run my tongue across the skin and then press my teeth into the tender flesh. He groans and his hips leave the bed. I turn my head and repeat the process on the other thigh.

"Why so quiet, Sherlock?" I brush my nose against him, the cotton does nothing to mask the musk that is so wonderfully Sherlock. I glance up and his head is propped up, he's watching me. I kiss the base and use my teeth to just brush the underside, using no pressure at all.

"Jesus," he says I feel his fingers wrap into my hair. I glance up again and he's lying flat again, staring up at the ceiling.

"That's better," I say. "I want to hear you." I pop the button open and bring him out. There is a sharp intake of breath as the cool air of the room hits him. I trace my index finger up the dark vein on the underside.

"Have I told you thank you?" I ask following the path of my finger with the tip of my tongue. I feel the slight increase in tension as he prepares for my tongue to come in contact with the head. Instead I pull back. I hear the hitch in his breath. No one else would notice it. "Thank you for coming here," I say as I move down placing a kiss into the dark curls. My check brushes his shaft as I do so. He sucks in a sharp breath and I realise it must be my stubble rubbing against him. I place another kiss and move my cheek back and forth a few times.

There is a subtle shift as his thighs try to tighten around me. He desperately wants to keep me in place but resists. I feel his fingers flex in my hair and his other hand settles on my bicep. I smile against him as I place a kiss against the base. I dart my tongue out to taste and feel his grip tighten.

I prop my chin on his thigh and stare up at him. His eyes dart to mine and they are desperate and wanting. I smile at him and am rewarded with his nostrils flaring in frustration. He tries to pull on my hair to drag me up his body. I resist him.

I slip my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and push down. He lifts his hips to help me, and then lifts one leg so that he can pull a foot out. He seems unconcerned with the other leg, content to leave the boxers on them if it will draw my attention to him again. I chuckle as I kiss his thigh, sliding them down the rest of the way. When I reach his ankle he flips his foot sending them flying. His fingers tighten in my hair, his message clear. 'Get back to work, John.'

I kiss his thigh again flattening my tongue against the sensitive skin.

"Ummmm," comes his quiet voice in the silence. I reach my hand up and brush his cheek. I brush my index finger across his lips and he places a kiss into the pad. He opens it to suck it into his mouth but I pull it back.

"Not yet," I say, turning my head so that my words hum into the hollow of his hip. The puffs of my breath cause the tiniest of contractions in the muscles of his ass and back causing minute thrusts towards me. "This is about me thanking my husband. I'm going to go some of his favourite things."

I move my index finger farther away from his face and settle it onto one of his nipples. I press against the tiny nub and begin to circle it.

"Mmmmhmmmm," he murmurs, arching slightly to increase the contact. I start to place a series of quick kisses up his shaft and I watch as the first drops start to ooze out of him. I move my thumb and squeeze the nipple tightly just as I press my tongue against the tip to capture the liquid.

"Oh god," he says trying to arch and thrust at the same time. I pull back an instant later and his body stops moving. "John," he lets out and there is a hint of a warning there. Sherlock hates to be teased - actually he really loves to be teased, he just thinks that he hates it. Patience isn't one of his greatest virtues.

"Thank you for taking this case." I say, placing another kiss against the base, brushing my stubble against his balls.

He breathes in again and I turn and take one into my mouth. I suckle it, pressing my tongue against the tender sack. I use my lips to pull it gently. He grunts and his fingers tighten in my hair.

His legs move apart a fraction to make more room, then pulls back wanting to clasp down on me. I smile around him as he fights the conflicting urges. I open my mouth wider and suck in the whole sack. I lap at both of them, salivating around him. I pull again, just a fraction harder.

He gasps, flexing his fingers, prepared to push me off if I pull too hard. I know exactly how he likes it though and a moment later the gasp becomes a drawn out moan. He tugs on my hair trying to get me to move up, to take him in my mouth. Not yet though.

The smell of him is so intense here. I must have more.

I allow his balls to slurp out of my mouth. He gasps again, probably at the suddenly cool air. I place a kiss on his lower abdomen, just where the smooth skin meets the coarse hair. Sherlock doesn't have an abundance of hair anywhere. He is smooth below his navel until his pubic hair. It is my only complaint, completely superficial, and never voiced, about his physical appearance. I'd appreciate a trail of hair here. But alas.

I drag my tongue up to his navel and dip it inside. He arches into me and just as expected his hand leaves my hair.

"John," he huffs out as I hear his hand smacking the bedside table. I watch the movement of his awkwardly bent arm for a moment, continuing my attack on his navel before I finally take pity on him.

I rise up and push myself up his body. His arm stops flailing and his eyes widen as he watches me. They are like deep black pools in the mostly dark room and they are absolutely enchanting. I straddle his waist, setting myself on his stomach. He grunts at the contact and not at the weight. I lean forward and press my chest against his. The t-shirt and boxers that I still have on are the only thing between us.

He's perfectly still as I lean forward. I reach my arm out and open the drawer. I pull out the small container and place it in his hand. His fingers tighten around it immediately.

"Looking for that?" I brush my lips over his, barely touching him. His lips move against mine but no words come out.

He nods a fraction and I smile.

It's all the invitation he needs. There is suddenly a hand in my hair again, knotting into a very tight grip. He lifts his head enough so that his lips can meet mine. His tongue slams into my waiting mouth and he groans against me. It gets lost in my chest and I bring a hand up to cup his face.

I feel the slight puff of material as he drops the lube next to us. The next second his hand is working its way under my shirt and up my back. He drags his nails up my spine. I feel his lips upturn as I shiver in response to the touch.

"God," he says pulling on my hair and lifting me off of him. He brings his other hand around and pushes me up. "Why in the hell are you still wearing so many clothes?"

He moves both hands to the bottom of my shirt and pulls it over my head. He tosses it haphazardly in the direction his boxers were flipped.

He reaches a hand into the slot on my boxers. His cold fingers wrap around me and I bend forward. I ache as he touches me, pushing my foreskin up and over the head.

"Jesus, Sherlock," I gasp out and I have to catch myself on the pillow next to him. I lock my elbow and manage not to tip all the way over. He turns his head and places a kiss onto the underside of my forearm.

He grabs the lube and I hear it pop as he flips it open with his thumb.

"Fingers," he commands and my left hand comes up on its own. I feel the cool gel on my fingers then Sherlock's hand spreading it around.

He lets go of my shaft and wiggles his hips indicating that I should move. I push my boxers down as I do and settle between his legs again. As soon as I am off of him he draws his knees up, completely opening himself to me. It's an amazingly trusting gesture and I enjoy it every time.

I place a kiss against the inside of his knee and rest a hand on his hip. I reach between his legs with the other hand and slowly penetrate him with one finger. He accepts that easily and I move on to two. He bucks as I curl against his prostate and I lean down to collect some of the leaking fluid with my tongue. He groans and leans his head back. I know that he wants to enjoy this, and watching as I taste him will be too much. It will send him over the edge too quickly. I smile as I flatten my tongue on his slit and lap at him.

He thrusts up against me.

"Now," he says pushing back against my fingers. I start to shake my head, but his hand is suddenly in my hair again.

"Now, please." He has only added the pleasantry to get what he wants. It works. I slide my fingers out of him. Sherlock's hand is suddenly on my shaft again, slicking me up in preparation. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation, knowing that what is coming will be even better.

He lets go and repeats his command. "Now."

He lifts his leg and I settle it on my shoulder. I grab myself and slowly push into him. His head falls back again and he lets out a long moan.

"God you feel good," I say. I'm pretty sure I always say it, because it is absolutely true.

I still when I have fully breached him and give him a moment to adjust fully. Apparently it isn't necessary because Sherlock lifts and grinds back against me.

"Shit," I say at the sudden movement and he chuckles. The bastard always likes to get a surprise or two in.

I adjust my weight and pull back slowly before thrusting forward hard and fast. I arch up at just the right angle and Sherlock's chuckle turns into a throaty wail.

"Here I am trying…" I start pulling back and thrusting hard into him again.

"Oh god," escapes him in a puff. "Oh god, John, oh god."

Instead of settling into a comfortable rhythm I pull out and move my hips in a slow circle as I push in slowly. His body shudders beneath me and he lets out an almost pained "ohhhhhhh."

I turn my head and use my teeth on the knee pressed into my shoulder, not breaking the skin but enough so that he feels it. His thigh begins to quiver and his voice breaks off into a constant mumbled chant. His head is moving slowly from side to side.

I pull out again and push forward hard, my balls slapping against his ass. I do it again. And again. And again. It's a hard pace to keep up but Sherlock is fairly close already.

"john, John, John, John, John…"

"What?" I ask causing his eyes to shoot open and look at me. They are glassy and barely aware. "I'm right here", I say, placing another kiss against his knee. "I'm right here and I'm trying to be nice to you, trying to thank you."

His eyes stay locked on me but his head is moving again. He's close and as soon as I touch him or he touches himself he's going to come, hard.

"I wanted to say thank you for this weekend, all of it, the good and the bad." He nods, but can't manage words other than the grunts that push out of him every time I slam against him.

I pull out and push in slowly again. His eyes flutter closed. He gasps and his fingers tighten against the sheets. His cock is bobbing between us, desperate to be touched. Its liquid is dripping onto his lower abdomen. There's a lot of it already, sliding towards his sides.

"Go on, Sherlock," I say and he meets my eyes again. I nod my head towards his cock and his eyes go wide again. An instant later his hand comes up and he grabs himself.

I settle into a more comfortable pace and lean forward and settle my weight on my arms. Sherlock's leg is biting into my shoulder as I push it past the point of being comfortable but he doesn't seem aware.

"Oh., oh, oh god, oh god, John, John." His continuous chant fills the room, getting steadily louder and louder. I feel his knuckles as they move at a frantic pace.

I can feel as he starts to add the little twist at the end that he adopts when he's close. I pull out again and angle against his prostate in time with the twist.

"Oh shit yes, uuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." His body starts to seize underneath me. His leg pushes against my shoulder trying to push me off and hang on to me at the same time. The hot liquid splashes against my abdomen and I see it hit his. His fingers are still frantic as his keening quiets into a series of moans. I still inside him allowing him to wrap his other arm around me and pull me down against him.

His leg slips off my shoulder and wraps around my waist. He arches up into me as the shudders calm and his body starts to relax.

He tugs on himself a few more times before pulling his hand out from between us. He brings it down to cup my ass. It is hot and sticky against my skin and feels amazing as he brushes his fingers between my cheeks. His other leg comes up and wraps around my waist.

He is tilted at the most enticing angle and encouraging me to thrust. I bury my face into his neck and begin to slam in to him again.

His voice is smooth and soft as he starts to whisper into my ear. I love his voice.

"Come on, John, I want to feel you. Fill me up. I want to hear you, too. You know I want to hear you. Come on, John. I love you. I love you so much." He'll deny ever saying any of it.

But it's enough.

The familiar torturous tightening shoots through my groin. I feel the muscles in my back and ass tighten as I involuntarily pound into him. I release a guttural wail as my balls raise and I shoot into him. He holds me tight against him, loosening as I draw back and thrust forward again. I cry out as my toes curl in the split second before I collapse on top of him.

My exhaled breath hits me in the face as it bounces off his neck. I don't move though. I can't.

His legs drop flat onto the bed, but he manages to keep me secure inside of him. I never want to move from that spot. I never want to be without him surrounding me.

He turns placing a kiss onto the top of my ear. "You're my husband John. I belong here, right here."

I nod against him, unable to speak, unable to find the words. I rarely can when this Sherlock comes out, it's so rare. His arms tighten and it is momentarily difficult for me to breathe.

"I love you, too," I manage to whisper against his skin. He hears me though, he knows.

The exhaustion sweeps over me suddenly and I can't keep my eyes open. I move to slid off of him, out of him but he stops me.

"Go to sleep, John." He says and his fingers settle in my hair. He rubs his fingers along my hair line behind my ear. "Sleep," he repeats and I surrender to the darkness.

* * *

><p>AN – That's it boys and girls. Epilogue to follow.


	18. Epilogue

Epilogue

Thursday

John is on the phone as I walk into the kitchen. It's 6:30 and he'll be leaving in a few minutes for his shift at the clinic. He smiles at me as I sit down at the table. He holds up the coffee pot and I nod my head. He pours a mug and hands it to me.

"Yeah," he says. "Well we're having a few boxes shipped home. Sherlock found quite a lot of things he wants to keep. The only big thing was one of Dad's New Orleans pictures."

He's obviously speaking to Harry. I feel the cold metal of the dog tags beneath my t-shirt. I'd fallen asleep with them on last night. They are the best thing I brought home, although the baby pictures of John are a close second.

"Well we'd love to meet her; we'll set up dinner next week."

_Her, _Harry must have a new girlfriend. Twelve weeks ago, she'd ended a relationship with a woman after a few months. It was her first relationship since Clara. I know that John is happy that she's going out more. I'm glad he's not worried about her as much.

He hangs up and turns his attention to me.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of you being up early this morning?" He stands with his hand on the fridge and smiles over at me.

I sip my coffee and meet his eyes. I used to get up with him every morning, before we got married. Now the only time I see him is if I happen to still be up, or getting up for a case. I like seeing him before he goes to work; I'll have to make a habit of it again. It isn't as if I can't return to bed once he leaves.

I shrug my shoulders. "I was awake, obviously," I say. He opens the fridge and grabs a few items tossing into the lunch box that he takes to work with him.

He's moving with ease. Returning home from Wellow has improved his disposition a great deal. He was better the last day we were there but is back to normal now. The burden of those people has lifted from him.

He hasn't asked me anymore about Stephanie so I haven't volunteered anything. But I have confirmed with Mycroft that my belief was correct. I know where she is if John wants to find her. Mycroft volunteered to keep a passive eye on her and I've agreed to let him, at least temporarily. Thankfully, as this is for John and for not me, Mycroft will not expect anything in return.

He grabs his jacket, his lunch box, and his wallet from the table.

"I'll be home around 4," he says as if I am unaware of the time that he habitually arrives home. I just nod, grabbing a last sip of coffee before he bends down to kiss me good-bye.

He brushes his tongue across my bottom lip quickly, surprising me. I open my mouth, welcoming more, but he pulls back.

"I'll see you later," he says. "We don't have any food and I'm not going to the store so think about what you want for dinner." He walks past me, brushing a hand over my shoulder as he does so.

We'll have Chinese for dinner, I decide immediately. And I make a mental note to order John's birthday present today. It'll take a few weeks to arrive, and I can hide it until his birthday. John, for reasons I don't understand, doesn't try and figure out what his gifts are. He insists that he likes to be surprised. I could probably put it in a box on the table and he wouldn't….

Box.

I remember it suddenly and stand up. I walk to the closet in the corner, but there are no cleaning supplies there. I frown then remember that they are in the same closet with the towels, upstairs.

I climb the stairs two at a time and open the closet door. I find the box exactly where John said it would be, behind the supplies. I push them out of the way, making sure none of them spill on the floor. John would be displeased if there were stains on the floor because of the cleaners.

I rearrange them quickly and reach in for the box. It is a small shipping box, larger than the cigar box I found in Wellow. I feel a quick flash of pride as my box is bigger than the other, but push that away. The size is irrelevant, in some things.

I return to our bedroom and settle cross-legged on our bed. I tentatively open the lid, finding myself suddenly anxious. I wonder what from our life John has decided to set aside.

Immediately on top I see the few items he brought back from Wellow. I'd watched him secure them in a bag before he packed them in his suitcase. I'd been concerned about him leaving the cigar box behind, but he'd happily packed all of the photo albums to be shipped to us, so I dismissed it. He was not seeking to completely avoid the unpleasant memories; he just doesn't need the mementos.

I set the ticket, the rose, and the ring aside. I am familiar with them already. Underneath is another concert ticket and a restaurant napkin. They are from our second anniversary 6 months ago. I smile remembering that evening for a number of different reasons, but John managed to make it all wonderful.

Next is a newspaper clipping about a case we had a Sussex last year. I'd travelled to Sussex alone because John had to work and I didn't anticipate the case taking very long. It didn't, but I ended up breaking my arm and waking up in the hospital with my worried husband staring down at me.

Underneath that is a plane ticket, pad of paper, pen, matchbook, and brochure from the hotel in Monaco where we spent our first anniversary. There is nothing else from Monaco, because we didn't leave the hotel room for 4 days. It was a wonderful holiday.

The items from Corsica and our honeymoon are next and I'm ecstatic to see a piece of material from the bumblebee tie among them. The tie was ripped not long after our honeymoon and I'd been distraught. I'd managed to find another tie with bees, but it wasn't the same. I can't believe he cut a piece of it off before throwing it away. I hold it up and squeeze it between my thumb and index finger. It feels soft and familiar and I vow I will once again continue my search for an exact replacement. The internet is amazing; it has to be out there.

There is also a small plastic bag with sand that he'd collected from the beach. I remember him dragging me down there and knowing that the waiter, Paolo, was watching us the whole way. Paolo - there better not be a memento of him in here.

There isn't, there are a few photos taken from our villa, and a series of souvenirs from the hotel along with our flight itinerary. There were no tickets from that trip because it was a private plane.

I pull out our wedding photo. It wasn't actually taken at our wedding, but at the lunch afterwards. Harry stood next to John and Mycroft next to me. The waiter took the photo. I remember thinking at the time wanting nothing more than to leave and get home with John. We'd taken a few more photos when we got back to the flat, but I am the keeper of all the dirty photos. I'll have to get the camera out when I am done here.

His wrist band from the hospital surprises me, until I remember that we became engaged in the hospital. I also pull out the jewelry box our rings were in. There is a newspaper article about the capture of a hacker; it takes me a minute to bring up the case. I remember then that it was after that case that John and I first became involved with each other. I smile at that memory, too.

There are a collection of other hotel souvenirs from different places that we've stayed because of cases along with a small collection of newspaper articles about cases I've solved. There is also an article about Sebastian's arrest, the Pool incident, and a label from a honey container.

There is a photo of us from New Orleans as well as the plane ticket, a map, and our ticket from Preservation Hall. He also has a picture of me eating a beignet. I have powdered sugar all over my face, fingers, and the collar of my shirt. We'd been eating outside and a stiff breeze had coated me with the sweet substance. John had laughed and laughed and laughed. I'd been annoyed and embarrassed. He'd snapped a photo anyway. Looking back on it, the experience was quite humourous.

I'm astonished that he's managed to collect all of these, and feel momentarily horrified that I have saved so few things from John. I pile all of his items back inside. I stand and cross the room to my dresser. I open the top drawer and reach for the envelope in the back.

I sit back on the bed and pull out the contents, my John mementos. There is a ticket from a Chinese circus, a bullet pulled from a wall after a cab driver was killed – Don't ask - a photo of John and I long before we became involved. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on taking it and later I'd insisted that she print me a copy. There is also a photo of us lying in bed together. John is asleep, head resting on my shoulder. I'd held the camera in the air and taken a picture of us. I'd done it simply because I was bored and unwilling to disturb John. The camera was the only thing in reach to keep me entertained. When I'd gone through the pictures later I'd been amazed at how pleasing I'd found this one. I'd printed it immediately and set it aside. I doubt John's ever seen it.

I set all of my items inside John's box and set the envelope aside to be thrown away later. I put the lid back on and return the box to the closet.

I replace the cleaning supplies so that it's obvious I've moved them. I want John to know that I've looked through the box. I want him to open it and see my few contributions. From this point forward I will be more diligent. I close my hand around the dog tags and decide not to take them off now. They'll be fine as I shower. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom.

* * *

><p>AN – Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, and/or enjoyed this story. It was a true labor of love at points, but it's done. Woo hoo! And to ScopesMonkey who read every chapter, even the ones that didn't get published. I threw countless ideas at her and she just listened never telling me I was an idiot, even if I was. She made this infinitely better than it would have been. Thank you!


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